re: three years postmortem

(an examination)

I know that ripping off the bandaid and poking at 
yesterdays wounds, repeatedly / incessantly,
only serves to incite infection - you fester
underneath my skin and rot me from the inside out.

My wish is that you’ve received the same sentence, 
that your dreams are haunted by 
the voice of the girl who 
wrote you love letters, (jabbed to the back of
our bottom drawer), 
like the ones you had about her ‘every night’;
the same girl who was scared that you’d discover
what she’d stumbled upon: 
capital-H her corsage, (daintily settled on the 
top shelf of our closet), the years showing no wear
on those pretty, fake flowers. 

It’s hard not to imagine you holding her with the same delicacy;
an idea in mind that she was something fragile, 
sacred - a treasured possession. You held me like that 
once, after our first date, when I was 
still granted input on how to spend our evening. We turned 
on Titanic and I stumbled into sleep. 
I rested on your chest, half-conscious, nervous 
that you’d see me too close-up. 
(’You don’t know how beautiful you are’, you said. 
You had no clue that I’d heard you.) 
We lounged in your bed all of the following day, 
whispering, giggling, learning; your family let us be. Out of 
respect for our privacy, or simply disinterest, I’d never know. 

Even when it was good, we both knew 
that it wasn’t. It was merely us murmuring half-truths 
in the other ones ear. A good day rarely meant anything more.
Who was it an act for? I can’t help but 
feel that it was yourself that you were trying to fool. Wanting 
to immerse yourself in another other girl, one who was
supposedly so different. Someone who you played-pretend 
desire towards, seeing only the precise, clean shots she made
instead of the trigger-happy stray bullets. 
Did you ever look inward long enough to realize that you secretly loved
her chaos? It takes no effort to see that she made you 
feel like you were far more special than you actually are. 
How embarrassing that I fell for your insecurity-driven obsession 
with outlandish personas, like: 
emotionally sound guy with divinely bestowed chivalry; or: 
man who embodies codes of justice and virtue that no one his age 
has the tools to decipher.

It’s hard to conceptualize the depths of your heartlessness; asking
me into your home, sleeping undisturbed next to my 
shivering body, watching me atrophy (fading color, wasting life) -
and never feeling the spirit of contrition. Refusing ownership
for holding the knowledge that it was never going to be me,
but keeping it up regardless. Yes, I know that 
our relationship was doomed from the start, that it 
was paralyzing far more than it was energizing; yet I still
see the person who I shared Jeff Buckley with 
the first time we hung out together. (Against my better
judgement). I’ve refused to rush sharing anything ever since.

I suppose that I’m still learning to forgive myself, instead of
forcing the practice of mercy upon your memory. (I don’t owe you
that courtesy. You siphoned enough of it before we were over.)
Now, in learning to hold myself gently, I’m choosing to 
recognize the error of my ways. Giving myself grace and 
forgiving that girl for trying to love someone into 
being a better version of themselves. How beautiful 
that I now know the love of someone whose core warms my 
own, even when my soul feels stuck out in
the cold. I'm cradled, recognized, known, maintained.
Safe. At ease.

Artist Unknown