woman sitting on floor sad

A Poem To You And The Things That Shouldn’t Hurt But Do

i. my mother’s voice. it sounds a lot like the light years between us. like the echos in the hole where my body should be. she speaks only to remind me i’m alone. it’s never warm, no, not anymore. this is what cold truly feels like.

ii. the snow we got in texas back in december. the way it covered everything. the rosy-cheeked faces in disbelief, arms sticking out their palms the way children do. how there was such beauty here that day. the way i still couldn’t feel a thing. how most of the time it only hurts because it doesn’t.

iii. spring. summer. that december 8th and i are long forgotten by now. the sun caresses my skin only to mock me. everything gets left behind. everything except fire that makes its own way, coming through without good intentions, coming through only to get off on the destruction. the way you made your way into that thing i carry underneath my rib cage.

iv. my bedroom floor. how home hurts and sometimes it’s only because you’re not there. how my carpet has seen more of me than my bed lately. sometimes i’m really that sad. sometimes i just want to be reminded of the nights we spent on your living room floor tracing verses of poetry up and down each other’s skin. sometimes i’m just looking for the carpet burn.

v. this body. there’s days neither of us want to have anything to do with the other. sometimes she calls me a bitch. sometimes we both miss you. sometimes the only thing that stirs anything inside of us is thinking about your hands.

vi. masturbating. there’s a reel of different men that plays in my head. i settle on one. sometimes his face takes the shape of yours.

vii. kirby drive. every fucking time. my jeep and i think of you. it’s nostalgia. it’s knowing how close, but how far you are. it’s wishing we could u-turn back to those clandestine nights. it’s missing walking up to your door, not having to do it alone because you were always outside waiting for me. it’s knowing you’re still a slight right away, but you’re there with someone else.

viii. this city. i cannot exist in the same place as you. TC mark

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