There is something so special
about your second love.
I was taught
that the second does not hurt as badly
as the first,
but that was wrong.

When I think of his hand
tracing over the outline of my spine,
his fingers ghosting over my skin
in the same manner that his presence
hovered in the room
caused for my heart to shatter
at the same time as it did for my skin to erupt
into goosebumps.
I was angry because I felt that my body was betraying me
by enjoying his actions
while he painstakingly was leaving;
checking out mentally.

He told me that he loved me.
He lied.
I knew from the moment the words left his mouth
that they were empty,
and yet I allowed them to flow from my eardrums
straight into the base of my heart
to settle there, build a nest and remain
until he left.

Now I know that he will not return
and the nest will stay there
until another can come
to build a new one.

Pain is the gasoline
added to the flame
that allows me to
create.

A blackbird will perch herself
in the corner of my window;
her head tilting in curiosity
as his hand
will cause my cheek
to burn red.

What do birds think about?
What can they do?

Too often I will turn to the blackbird
to beg for her to save me
from the hell that I will not leave.
My heart
is encompassed by the cage that
will not allow for it to throb
with the pain that the rest of my body feels.

Will she help?
Will she hear my pleas?

He hears me.
He finds it amusing.

He will laugh as his fingers wrap
one by one around that birdie’s neck,
using the shards of my heart
to dig into the feathers
that adorn her body.

The blood is invisible
against the black of her back,
but a metallic stench
will fill the air.
It is something that will have sent me to the emergency room
one too many a time.

Her song will not be silenced,
although the beautiful melody that once
separated her beak;
a joyous sound,
is replaced by the snap of her bones.
It is not until this moment
that I will be pulled from my trance.

Once he is satisfied,
he will pluck a single feather
from the back of what is left of that little birdie,
and he will attach it to the quill
that he uses
to grant me my death wish;
loving him.

Two people
in the right place
at the right time
slowly begin
to fall in love.
It starts with a brush here,
a giggle there,
a kiss here,
a kiss there.

Falling with their hands
fumbling in an attempt to grasp
anything to hold them up
as they began to spiral
out of control.
When they need each other to breathe,
when not having the other results in
gasping for air
and being pulled under
by the tide.

As soon as one left,
it was as though their bones
were hollowed out and left with nothing
but the echoes of each other.

But what happens
when one does not return?
When one is left
struggling to breathe,
to wake,
to carry on?

One said that not everything
is meant to  last
while the other sat back
wincing at each spoken word.

Two people
in the right place
at the right time
quickly begin  
to fall out of love.
Because
are you truly feeling love
if your soul
isn’t being torn apart?