Monday, 14 September 2015

about belonging

  If I could’ve saved anything from the fire, it would have been your touch imprinted on my skin, your eyes laughing at sunset, the marrow of our bones filled with light. That was before, when you needed me, when I haven’t spilled so much blood for you, before you got inside and ruined me. The problem is, I can’t do it anymore. I can’t look at this graveyard made out of our bones crying.

 You see, I take the parts of you that I can remember, suture them together and make a creature that maybe will love me. Oh, but I can’t ever get the creature to say the right lines. I can’t even make it stay beside me. You never belonged to me, not even slightly, not even in the endless nights when our breaths were entwined in one another. It was so late, yet we couldn’t sleep. We were so young then. I was loving a ghost, a pale reflection, never the whole.

 Here, help me, you would say, but you never noticed my hands trembling. You say I love you, I love you, please don’t leave, but you can never bring yourself to ask how my day was. You liked my laugh, but not my demons. You said I won’t harm you, but you made a bullet and painted it with my name so you’d make sure I’ll remember you. I swear, these last months you made me so empty, I had to search my skin for scars every time I saw you.

 If the day ever comes when I have to let you go, I promise I would make it easy for you. But this doesn’t mean that I won’t feel the bullet striking, the taste of ashes in my mouth, my chest shaking.

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