Saturday 29 September 2018

the intricacies of breaking .

in trying to say goodbye,
i do not know where to put my hands.

                 if i went with what my body said,
i would hold yours close to mine
                                (wondering, always,
                                 where did the distance first creep in)


i don't think that is what a clean
                                                           break looks like.

it is easy to let go of the reality of us
there is freedom in the        
                                 of one person
                                                         from another


i don't know where to put down this
                                                           (long before we even touched)

i have a
                     suspicion that unfinished ideas
         into something they ought not to be

                                      and nostalgia is a dirty bitch
that eats people alive from the inside out
                                      if left unchecked

so i've been holding my breath when i hear your name

i've been
                  (and it's as easy as i remember it)

i've been letting the distance expand between your body and mine

i've been filling the space with things that do not remind me of what we should have been

                                                  i'm trying to say goodbye to you
                                                 in a way where both of us survive

                                   and i think it's working
(i'll let you know when i let out the air).

{Photo by: Codrina Cazacu}

Friday 24 August 2018

The Dust On This Poem Could Choke You | by Lora Mathis

September 18, 2014

I am throwing out all of the clothes you touched me in.
I am burning every poem with your name in it.
But I am still holding onto some of the letters you wrote me.
I tell myself it’s to remember.
I tell myself it’s because I am afraid
of forgetting the early warning signs.
I tell myself I’m not sentimental.

I’m not sentimental.
I’m just afraid of throwing every burning thought
I have about you into the trash
and starting a wildfire.

I am shaking on the ground in my bedroom,
realizing that it is two years until I turn the age
you wanted to marry me at.
I am using the candles on my
twenty-first birthday cake
to burn “grow up” into my knees.
I am in the front row at a show,
realizing that if I heard this song two years ago,
I would have thought about you.

Thinking about you takes effort now.
You no longer pour out when I open my mouth.
These days, if I want to bleed you out,
I have to grab a knife.

I am in the waiting room checking off “suicidal thoughts”
on the general form. I am figuring out
which parts of my personality are mine
and which ones I created to please you.
I am in the doctor’s office, holding my head high and not
quivering when she asks me if I’m okay.
I am biting down on my lip until I taste rust when she
mentions putting me on antidepressants.
I am getting better, I swear.

I am feeling the tears well up and not letting them fall.
This is a form of self-abuse.
This is a form of reliving my youth.
This is a form of remembering what it felt like to be near you.


by Lora Mathis