I’m the type of girl who will write you love poems in the middle of the night because I can’t sleep
Because every time I close my eyes I imagine yours staring back at me,
I can feel your arms wrapped around me, hand on my waist, skin to skin
Instead of the screaming below
The screaming of my parents, my brother’s cries for it to stop
The screaming of demons I hold inside but my grip sometimes slips and I cry too
So I think, instead, your voice inside my head
I hold that hand, your hand in my memory so tightly because right now I want to bite my nails
I want to bite down the cubicles and peel my skin down to the knuckles and keep in place so
I cannot scream myself when red drips down my palm, across my wrist mimicking the shapes of veins
Red. Red is blood, ribbons, hair. Flame. I think of candles and the ghost they leave behind
That trailing scent of not-so-happy birthdays and old perfumed women with a failing sense of smell
Smell is a powerful thing, almost a phantom of memories. Never in my life have I smelt sawdust and not thought of my father’s garage, his eyebrows pinched not in anger
Whenever I wear your jacket, I am constantly breathing in the scent. Never am I not reminded of your bedsheets, my fingers through your hair, quietly listening to each other breathe
I wish I could breathe that easy now, lay back straight rather than hunched over the white of a screen
This position is starting to hurt; the way I’m sitting, where I’m at, my future direction
I can't move without giving in to listen
And I can’t leave without saying goodbye