Your Ex-Lover is Dead

Everyone has gone away.
My solitude resonates in every bone,
my blood flows accusing and hot through a series of roadways,
that make up the metropolis in my chest.

I feel a twinge of shame flicker across me,
eclipsing all the pain.
“S**t,” I think,
“Why did you do that?”
A bead of red life slips from a crescent shaped breech in my skin.
My fingers stop digging burrows into my shoulder.
A trickle of nostalgia runs over my arm, and makes a mess on the tile.

But god, I need to see you again.
Your voice still resounding in my attic walls,
each word aching in my hollow skeleton.

You tell me not to be scared;
you whisper a few sweet things; tell me you must go.
Don't go.

I beg you not to, I need you here.
But you go anyway.
Your voice fades into the whirring sound of a fly's wings,
your sweet smile burning in the back of my eyelids.

It will be several hours before I hear from you again.

Your arm moves over my form around midnight, as I drift off to sleep.
Your smell seeps into the sheets.
Chilly nicotine and evergreen forests caress my spine,
and send ripples of goose bumps over my flesh.

Softly, your lips brush against the nape of my neck.
A few inches from my ear,
a voice made of gold threads and water rumbling over river rocks,
hums through some Ginsberg.

A few tears crawl down my cheek,
I’m hiding in your arms.

I wake up before dawn,
and you’ve left again.
I’m sleeping with my shadow.
I’m all alone, so I can be with you.

The warm water hugs my body for a few soft seconds,
before slithering down the drain.
The faucet emits a hollow, gasping sound.

A rivulet of silver water carves a path over smokey skin,
frozen rivers of violet simmering  just beneath the surface.

The shower curtain rustles.
I’m curled up in a ball, slumped against the side of the tub.

Your strong hands wrap around my shaking shoulders,
and drag me onto your still clothed lap.
“A shower is a silly place to cry,” you say.
I don’t know why I laugh.

I come home from work.
Am I alone,
or are your memories strong enough to materialize?

In the bathroom, I crawl into the sink to lean against the mirror.
My fingers trace your shape in the glass.

It’d be nice if you came back.

It’s another night.
I put on an old CD.
You listened to this in highschool.
My small frame is working it’s hardest to fill out a tee-shirt of yours.

My fingers are fishing through a shoebox of things you left behind.
Love notes, a sketch of me, a pack of cigarettes…
I light one and let it hang from my lips,
listless and dry,
as the smoke chokes out an air of innocence in my bedroom.

My fingers wrap around your favorite pocket knife.
You crawl from the shadows and sit down in front me,
naked.

“Kiss me.” I say. You do.
“Hold me.” I say. You do.

I slip the knife into a makeshift metropolis, humming with panic.
My breath comes stinging now, like static in my lungs.
Dark blood stains the wood mahoganey.

As I lay convulsing on the floor, I grow disgusted with myself.
I think of everyone who won’t find me;
My mother, Janice from the office, a “best friend,” my neighbor’s dog…

But somehow, someone finds me.
Angry hands shake me as I slip into silky black.
They feel like your hands,
but you’ve never held me like this.

A year later, a stranger asks me about the scar,
now just  a fleck on my dirty snow skin.
A few starless nights,
parking lots and backseats. 

 

Reviews

[C. Harter Amos]

This is such an overused subject that I don't know how you've managed to make it beautiful and new. You've dripped pure talent all over your page!

[Sam Cambell]

This is actually one of the only poems I've read with a subject this dark that doesn't come out sounding angsty and whiny. Really lyrical, with its own melody in the words. "the metropolis in my chest" Really good, you have real talent.

[Keriun]

You have me absolutely speechless and awed by your art. I really really liked this and I shared it on facebook ^_^

I think "mahoganey" should be spelt as "mahogany" :b

And I don't really understand the last phrase "We're pregnant."

[Miss Take]

I simply... cannot get over your imagery. Your knack is just... I'm incredibly envious. I love the way that you pieced this together. It's... choppy, but at the same time, carries enough cohesiveness that the reader gets a good idea where your/the character's head is.

It's chilling. It's... haunting.

And above all else, I have to say that... This is probably one of the most honest pieces I have ever read. To me, that is a compliment in of itself. You're incredibly talented. Looking forward to reading more!

[Cassidy Mask]

This is amazing and beautiful. The imagery you create with simple words and the emotion throughout. I really love this. Absolutely gorgeous - such a 'rich' write! :)

[Sara]

hmmm... this is definitely well-written enough to avoid being called 'cheap', and as for 'angsty' i shouldn't even talk because it'd totally be a case of the pot calling the kettle black. ;) again, great use of language: 'a trickle of nostalgia', 'frozen rivers of violet', all very dark and beautiful... i like the way you sort of abruptly jump through time, from scene to scene, it definitely enhances the poem's sense of unreality, of being so lost in despair... i especially like the line 'i think of everyone who won’t find me;/my mother, janice from the office, a “best friend”, my neighbor’s dog…' -- i love the loneliness there and the hurt sarcasm that bleeds through; i think your narrator's voice comes out very strongly... um, imho, i also think you should change 'aire' to 'air' -- 'aire' is distracting and adds nothing to the poem... your narrator seems like a normal (albeit depressed) person, so why would she use that strange spelling? ...but, yeah, good job, you're a very talented writer. ;)

[Hayles]

This is amazing. Great write! Brilliant use of vocabulary.

[Emily B]

I would say haunting instead of ansty, very well written.