let me tell you how
i write.
when my grandparents
read my book for the first time,
they called me asking me if i was sad.
i remember a time when i would have said yes.
would have told them that the bloody imagery
and the gaping pit oozing metaphors was a mirror
of how i feel all the time.
but today, i smile.
today, i laugh at such an idea—
me, sad.
me, not over you.
me, broken.
you see, there's a small part of me
that is just that—
sad, broken, not over you (etc.)
but it is barely a chip of my heart.
a lone dust particle floating in clean air.
when i want to write about you
like you still make my lungs feel stapled
to the wall with my rib cage,
like you still have your claws sunk into my stomach,
i visit this place.
it is dark there.
there is no light switch i can flip on when i enter,
though maybe that is for the best.
if it were light i may be forced to see your face.
but when i walk in, i can hear your laughter.
i take a seat on the ground and i can feel your hand brushing away my hair.
i let the nausea flood my throat
and i let the tears flow
and i grab the pen.
i let what now is an ounce of hurt
grow again until it weighs enough to crush me.
like it once did.
when the poem ends,
i stand up and swallow the pain
down,
down,
down,
until i am once again smiling,
once again laughing
at the notion of the monster you were.
i lock the door when i leave.
put the key in my pocket.
i do not know if i will ever be able
to throw it away.
-c.h.
YOU ARE READING
how the words come
Poetry"this is the poetry that has come from finally realizing it is okay to be okay but also not okay at the same time." ~ 'how the words come' tells the story of overcoming the aftermath of an emotionally abusive relationship. the book is separated into...
