by Rosy Cheeks And Irony   Feb 7, 2018

Disappearance is never quite as simple as
a one line poem.

It’s more coated in complication that explains
why I can’t quite translate my heart beats into
any language the world might recognise,
that the only thing I can grasp at is your name,
over and over,
left like bruises on my chest in the form
of apologies, constructed only from false fanatics.

If absence was a physical thing,
I would wrap my hands around it,
squeeze it tightly.
As though any form of self-violence can
somehow make it evaporate.

But what good would that do?
When somewhere inside of us are hives
waiting to be restored.
We are selves who need to be composed,
entities without purpose, without beginning.
There must be context behind why he left,
there cannot be an open ending.
There’s a candle, than there’s what you make of it.

Maybe I could make it better;
turn it into
a story, a fantasy…. A folklore:

Maybe He fell in love like any other fairy-tale prince;
yet he loved this women so, that he was willing to abandon
his queen, his young son, and his two princess’s-

[Princess. You used to call me princess.
Was that because some part you hoped that I
wasn’t real? Bubble. You used to call her Bubble, as though
you know how easy she was to burst]

There’s little point in trying to evaporate your absence
when all it’s going to do is condensate…
And then rain back down on us again.

You inflicted water damage on human flesh with every
day that passed, and every mile outstretched between
us felt like we were trying to drown in the mist of flame.

I can’t say your name without thinking of loss.
Without being reminded of my constant fear of the word “left.”

I was petrified my anxiety would leave me;
it seemed like the only thing that I had.

That’s what you did.

I wish I could reverse the clocks to before
they stopped ticking;
give myself a good chance at being whole.

I wish I could remake myself,
cleanse myself, from any part of you.
Sadly, science doesn’t work like that.


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