I pin the anemic bodies of poems to the bed of palm like they are cadavers waiting to be d i s s e c t e d.
This is the only way I know to make sense of things, each enjambed line a heartbeat closer to understanding this sadness (or letting go of it).
I gawk at the contents of the shelves that live amongst the curdling strips of wallpaper. Yellowing mason jars, each containing some tragic specimen swimming in formaldehyde tears-- Plath's last breaths; Sexton's paper cut fingertips; Van Gogh's severed flesh.
The sight of this ghastly collection sends the scars on my wrists into a spiralling ache.
I once made the mistake of assuming poetry would instantaneously exorcize the aching-- it only brought me closer.
But I must remember that bleeding is the last stop on the route to mending; it's gotta hurt before it can heal.
So I write, bear the sting of these words as they stitch together the tattered patchwork of my heart; until the scars meet at the pinnacle of my anatomy, crisscross, bright constellations flowering from the darkness, starlit tulips that shake the sorrowed dew drops from their rain-torn petals, celestial hieroglyphs waiting to be read-- This is your history; not your future.
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(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)