i lose myself in sorrow,
in memory. in
the sound of you, your voice,
calling after me. asking me
to give you another chance.
the way the syllables of my name
rolled across your honey-tongue,
dripped sticky down your chin and
left me emptier than i ever knew
i could become.

i can still feel your hands
on my hips, in my hair.
you had a hold on me
that even i can't quite explain.

i remember the night we stood outside
and you said you loved me,
let it slip out like an accident.
now, i wonder: did you know how
much it would terrify me? did you
intend to use my fear against me?
i suffocated in your arms
in order to save your pride, your feelings.

it took me centuries to leave you,
and even now, you live inside my head.
i still think before i speak,
flinch at the faintest hint of anger,
burrow under my covers late at night
because i hear your footsteps by my bed.

most days, i fall to pieces
and call myself a lying whore.
you have infiltrated even my most
private moments, settled
deep inside the marrow of my bones
like cancer, or maybe hatred.

some days i can feel your eyes on me,
dark, when i get undressed
and when i am standing in the shower.
there is nowhere left for me to hide.
i threw away the jeans i wore that night,
but i still have the poem you wrote me.

it's funny, the way the mind works.
the things we choose to save
compared to those that hold too
much meaning - shame, betrayal -
long after everything is over.
isn't it?