It’s been a long while and I’m still thinking about you.
They are sick of hearing me talk about you.
I’ve been with others but nobody compares to you.
I am bound. To you.
Today I heard of news and fought against my instinct
to rush to you and put my head beside yours
and tell you the things they will never know.
But I know some happiness of mine is nothing
more than your emotional demise,
unstable, a liar accusing another of lying.
Everything is my fault? I am to bear your negatives
and hide my loves from you–for you judge,
for you fight, for you terrify. You terrify me .
You berate and control, tie me to the anchors of your
I love you. I love you and I dread you.
You lift me through suffocation then cut me into the waters
of your created hell. Miscommunication is our
communication. We scream about him, scream together
to him, scream about him and about it, about what could have been.
We knew it wouldn’t last and yet we tried.
Because I heard the strange sounds
that bounced from your mind. Because
I saw the colors that danced from your silver
lips. Because you smelt like nostalgia and
the touch of your stare still shivers
through my vulnerable spine.
It’s not over. Death is the mother of beauty.
Death is the mother of beauty, but
we were born motherless.