The Corner of my Bedroom

February 8, 2012
Last night I sat in the corner of my bedroom
And read every word you ever said to me in those letters.
Naked and vulnerable, broken and leaking,
I read every one. I read some twice.
I then slipped each letter into my eager mouth
And used gnawing teeth to sort out the lies.
Spit to sort out the pain.
And stomach acid to sort out the loneliness and desperation.
This morning I tried to regurgitate what was the truth.
The dry-heaving only produced a shattered mask,
Having slipped off the slick canvas of a face that I present
As me.
I stared into the empty sink and then at the mirror,
The same one you looked into as you screamed a shrill love song,
And the same one I look into daily and whisper a melody of hate
For who you made me, and for who I perceived you to be.
Tonight I clutched at my pillow like it was your throbbing heart
And held it to my face, as if smothering myself
Was the only thing that would return to me your smile.
I stared at a ceiling of a vast blanket of stars,
And I locked my jaw with your key as to
Keep the blue from falling into my mouth and forcing me to remember
The taste of your essence.
Tomorrow I will breathe in your sky and exhale all of your rays
As I sleep on the bed of nails that are now your fingers,
And I will burn the all of me from a day spent in déjà vu.
I will burst the only bubble I let you make me,
And I will cut my withered wings to match the length of your gray ocean.
I will promise never to fly higher than your tiniest wave.
I will let myself be irrationally and pathetically immerse
Beneath the surface of the you I fell in love with.
Then I will sit in the corner of my bedroom and read those letters.
Naked and vulnerable, broken and leaking.
Constantly mending, yet irreparable.

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