Six Months to Life

You ask me how I did it:
how I made an extremely difficult process look so easy.
You don’t know that it was excruciating from the start,
and that I’m nowhere near finished.

I had to remove the one person I wanted for the rest of my life,
from my life.
I had to detach myself from a part of my soul.
It started with one day, that turned into one week,
which turned into one month,
and before I knew it, I reached half of a year.

I haven’t coped,
I’ve just kept myself busy.
But those moments when I’m alone,
all of the memories rush to my head at once.

I want to tell him that my hands are sore from working such a long shift,
and that I’m coming over for chips and salsa.
I want to tell him all the good news about my day,
and how I’m evolving into the woman we both want me to become.

I may look like I’m okay, 
distancing myself from the one I love. 
But the truth is, in this sixth month,
I still want him,
just as much as I did on the day I decided to let him go.

written February 2, 2017.

Heal

Sometimes, 
I want to force my feet onto the floor
so that I can make my way out of bed. 
I envision myself heading to the bathroom
so that I can brush my teeth, 
shower, and start my day.

But most times, 
I don’t move.
If I do, it might be to eat,
or to get some more tissues. 

It’s not always the worst thing,
to lay here.
My memory works well, 
and because of that, 
I can write to relieve the thoughts 
that overtake me. 

That way, when I think of us kissing, 
I ache a little less. 
I wrap my arms around myself and 
get used to not having yours.

Today, 
I’m going to throw out my graduation and birthday cards;
even the handwritten card I never gave to you.
They’re all just reminders that I don’t need. 
As I mentioned before, I have enough.

Today, 
I’m not mad at myself for feeling the way that I do. 
There is no shame, or guilt, or denial. 
I’m allowing this recovery to take its course. 
I love you with all of me, 
so all of me must heal.

written January 24, 2017.

Unpublished

I could write a book about what each tear means. 
I could, but I won’t. 
I don’t trust you enough to understand why I feel the way that I do. 
I don’t trust at all.

My pain is scattered between old news and current events. 
It’s written in these lines, 
painted on the walls of the buildings I used to reside,
and held in the hearts of men that said they loved me,
but never quite knew how.

Sometimes I think about all that I’ve been through and cry.
I think about what’s to come and I cry some more. 
I am far from sending a bullet through my skull, 
but my sadness runs deep. 
I am far from the woman that the public believes me to be. 
Right now I am small.

I could write a book about it. 
I could. But I won’t. 
I could write a book about it. 
But there’s nothing left to say.

written October 7, 2016.

Never Say Enough

I still talk about you in present tense.
As I get dressed, I prepare to get scolded because of my outfit.
I get ready to downplay your discontent
and assure you that no pervert will have his way with me,
but that moment never comes.

When I crash on the couch,
I think about how I need to fold up the blanket
and neatly pile the pillowcases before you make your way down the stairs. 
I listen for your footsteps,
but I never hear them.

When I walk towards my room I glance into yours,
hoping to find you sitting on the edge of your bed, peering through your blinds,
but you’re never there.

No more beckoning me for silly things, or for nothing at all. 
No more inspecting my haircut when I come home from the barbershop. 
No more poking my thighs and asking about my weight. 
No more.

You left me so quickly. 
There was no build-up,
only signs, and heaviness in my spirit. 
You left me so quickly.
I could never say enough goodbyes.

written September 9, 2016.

Today

Today is not the day. 
Today is not the day, 
but it is.

In a matter of hours I’ll be looking at her, 
laying in her brand new bed.
It’s not as big as the one in her room, 
but I was told that she looks like she’s sleeping.

I will try my best to keep it together
since she’ll be looking down,
but I can’t guarantee that my eyes or heart
will agree with my truest of intentions.

Today is not the day
that I view her for the last time. 
It can’t be another encounter where 
I talk but silence says something in return.

Today is not the day.
Today is not the day.
She isn’t really gone.

written September 4, 2016.

Sunday

Dad took your favorite white outfit to the dry cleaner’s today.
I’m laying in your bed, 
careful not to submerge myself beneath the covers, 
because that would mean you’re really gone.

I went to tuck myself in early this morning.
I was so cold,
but I curled myself up in a little ball instead. 
I felt crumbs on your sheets from your last meal here,
and decided there were other ways I could stay warm.

I bury my face in your pillow just so I can smell you again. 
I stare at the blessed oil that stands ever so earnestly atop the dresser beside your bed. 
It hasn’t even been two whole days since you left us, 
but it feels like a nightmare that’s lasted years.

I hear your voice, 
and recall all that you said before speaking was no longer an option; 
before your hands could no longer hold mine. 
I kissed you when it hadn’t been too long since the blood stopped flowing,
and I kissed you once more as your outside turned to ice.

I don’t eat much. 
I don’t say much. 
But my tears tell it all.
I’ll keep laying in your bed because I’m closest to you here.
I’ll see you on Sunday again.

written August 30, 2016.