With twenty-six letters, hundreds of thousands of combinations can be made, but this one, by far is my favorite.
When spoken, it dances off the tongue like an eager lamb, more than ready to meet the altar, naïve in the ways of death.
But it is the feeling, not the sound of the word that draws my favor. It always begins as a dull ache that burns in the center of my chest, an ache that depends and simmers until there is a gaping hole where my heart should be.
Because it reminds me in a gentle way, that no one will ever call me by such a name. It is my favorite word because it has been, and will always be, lost to me. I am a piercing cactus in a sea of daisies. Who would be willing to hurt themselves to love another?
b e l o v e d ,
b e l o v e d .
I never had dreams before you.
And then I only dreamt when things went bad between us. Waking up without you, feeling very acutely that I was alone.
When I think of us, it doesn’t hurt like it’s supposed to. It just aches. Because I know that whatever we had, what once felt so special, now, means nothing.
Sometimes I wonder if you ever think of me. If you ever look at that bed we used to share and miss us in it. But then, I think I already know the answer, because I rarely do myself.
I just don’t understand. I thought you were my first love—in those moments, you used to say to me, no one could ever love you as much as I do, and I believed you.
So then, why, when I think of you, do I feel such apathy?
It doesn’t suit the love I thought we had.
just because his skin is warm honey
does not mean it will taste as sweet.
that was the mistake i made,
when my nose was too close to the
rose petals of his hair,
the smell, deep, pungent,
masking the scent of faded smiles
wafting from the onyx of his eyes.
hues of greys and reds,
blinded me to the silence,
that absence of sound that
sewed my ears shut
whenever i entered
the wordless realm
of his mouth.
what i could not hear,
i chose not to see,
and so i let myself float
in his chamber,
body vacant of
the color of my being.
which left me empty
and cold in a pit
waiting to stop waiting on
my own awakening,
ready to come back to myself.
it lasts in a strange way.
not always present,
you think you’ve healed.
but it shows up in the form of something else.
how it can mold itself
into the crack of every little thing you question about yourself.
how you subconsciously link it back to the thing you let hurt you.
your inability to be unapologetically you,
because you always find yourself thinking back to those moments she told you
why you weren’t right, and you believed her.
“I tried to make a home out of you, but doors lead to trap doors, a stairway leads to nothing. Unknown women wander the hallways at night. Where do you go when you go quiet?
You remind me of my father, a magician … able to exist in two places at once. In the tradition of men in my blood, you come home at 3 a.m. and lie to me. What are you hiding?
The past and the future merge to meet us here. What luck. What a fucking curse.”