Lost in the cavernous grief that enveloped me, freakishly attached to our dead affection, I waltzed, clumsily, with all memory of you. The good and the bad, I stitched in lumps to my skin, voluntarily cancers, consensually received tumors of self-loathing, longing, and loss. Trembling from the weight of all this decaying baggage, I tried to dance, awkwardly, through the dark, constantly knocking things over with this piece of you or that one, flailing, nearly collapsing, beneath the burden of your broken corpse.
II.
I desperately looked for a surgeon of sorts, to separate you from me, but found that the knife and scalpel were clutched in my hands - that I had to bleed, awake, for my freedom.
III.
I walked the path I'm on alone, alone for what seems like an eternity, before I found someone who noticed my scars, the places where you were cut away from me, and called them "beautiful." But he was not the doctor. He is not my savior.
Looking back with an honest eye, neither were you.
No comments:
Post a Comment