I caught myself in the mirror -
not really me,
just someone wearing my face.
they moved like a bad actor,
lines all wrong,
hands heavy,
feet borrowed.

I lit a cigarette,
watched the smoke curl
into the kind of shapes
I wish I could slip into.

I’m getting greys
at an alarming rate,
I already pulled at my hair.
“It’s normal” he says
I swear just to debate,
cause he doesn’t seem to care.

And I’m bleeding through
my scar tissued skin,
the layers only grew
still I find a way in.

I’m getting greys
at an alarming rate,
I’ll be down to the last strand.
Check or fold the plays,
the cards aren’t that great
I’ll be down the my last hand.

And I’m bleeding through
my thick nice sweater.
It’s a shame as it’s new
and we’re reaching the cold weather.
It will stain the soft fabric
I may just grab the bleach,
but I always made it a habit
to always keep it just out of reach.

I’m getting greys
at an alarming rate
pretty soon I’ll be bald.
On hot coals she stays,
though she shifts her weight
and watches her soles scald.

And I’m bleeding through
my clogged and blocked pores,
and the remaining few
are becoming septic sores.
I’ll shed another layer
of a non-protective bubble,
and my hair will continue to get greyer,
I think I’m now in some trouble.

Sculpted faces,
aging drama queens,

all the world's stages, this
is after those, these depths
of despair, where no pieces fit,

Kintsugi, fractured flash bulb scene,

an instamatic moment, a Kodak memory.

I am falling apart in the cradle
of your naked hands.
My body, nailed to the cross
of heaven, tries to please
silence.

I touch your delicate wrists
subtly, I read the prophecy
and the lost heartbeat
in them.

I approach your vast chest,
I search for the stars on it
that would show me
the way back to love.

My sticky fingers brush
your green words; thoughts
envy their own names.

Covered with a blanket
woven from your dream,
I long to reconcile with my soul,
to regain control of my heart.

Please, kiss my temples, let me
feel the glow
of your broad shadow.
I am not the lie that youth
fights for.

your presence lingers
not in grand gestures
but in the spaces in between

your smile filling my kitchen
with a warmth that remained
long after the coffee grew cold
and my cup was empty

the place still set for you,
as if you would walk in, sit down,
and make everything
feel a little more whole

the way we spoke on the subway
our words mingling like passengers
clinging to the rails
never quite ready to part ways

the way things look too clean…too still
not just your toothbrush
but the mess you made of my heart
gone

how lovely it was
to have your things scattered among mine
a forgotten sock
your glasses on the nightstand
a sign this space was ours
once

the scent of your shampoo hovers
an echo of you in the quiet
I breathe you in, eyes closed
wishing you were here
to wrap the night around us
turning off the world together
leaving only us
together in the stillness

I want to love,
So I can prove that
I am not completely lost,
In the hurdles of time,
And that there is a heart,
If not for me,
I wish for it to beat for the existence of another,
So my being can find a purpose,
I am in a a state of constant desperation,
To learn and to be learnt,
By heart,
So that I am never forgotten,
So that I may linger without consequences.

it sits in the closet,
folded like a bad memory.
I haven’t touched it in years—
but it touches me.
every night,
every time the air feels too heavy
against my skin,
it comes back.

his hands.
God, his hands.
they were everywhere,
moving like they owned me.
they gripped my hair—
tight, pulling, claiming,
and I can still feel them
dragging across my cheeks,
brushing my lips.
it wasn’t gentle.
nothing about it was gentle.
they pressed into my neck,
lingering too long,
and slid down to my belly,
my thighs—
fingers greedy,
leaving trails that still burn.
it wasn’t just touch.
it was a stain.
it sank into my skin,
and no matter how hard I scrub,
it won’t come out.

that night,
I slept on my friend’s couch.
I curled up,
a shell of myself,
and stared at the wall.
they didn’t ask
why my voice was quieter,
why my hands were shaking.
I wanted to scream—
but the words felt
as useless as I did.
I just laid there,
praying for sleep,
praying for silence,
praying for the memory of his hands
to let me go.

but it never does.
his touch is still here,
woven into the fibers of that shirt,
lurking in the shadows of my reflection.
even when I’m alone,
I’m not.
his fingerprints are on me,
inside me.

and the shirt—
I can’t wear it.
every time I try,
it tightens around my neck,
like he’s behind me again.
it doesn’t feel like fabric anymore.
it feels like him.

I want to throw it away,
but I don’t.
as if keeping it
keeps it real.
as if throwing it away
might make me forget
that it happened.

but I never forget.
I can’t forget.
because he’s still here,
in the way I flinch,
in the way I avoid mirrors,
in the way I still
can’t breathe.