Tuesday, December 5, 2017

i am trying to write about you,
but i am not angry or sad or grieving or missing you,
you’re stuck in me so far down my mind space
my words flow out emanating the essence of you,
hands pulsing because i can feel your grip,     around my throat
Squeezing the oozing me out of me

have you ever seen a person without a person inside?
A hollow, magnificent redwood
not sure if he is still alive, how is she still standing?
we have asked these questions.

my brain can’t wrap around anyone else’s,
and i marked it on my sleeve, right before the first time
we left off
because i knew i needed to know how to get you out,
but i don’t want to

because feeling you is home,
even when your thinking and saying and not-feeling and not-saying
brands the edges of my chest,
hot iron burning flesh,
we can all smell it,
but it’s fine.