Today I discovered.
Nothing is mine;
It's yours, too.
The lip prints on my bowl,
the wax fingers skewed across my dresser,
the messages through the dust on the mirror:
"Truth and Life!" traced into the reflection,
screaming at me while I put on face.
The blood stains on my sheets,
the dried, brown splotches I hold so grossly dear
from the night you leaned into cracked knuckles,
freshly broken from punching bag warfare.
Imprinted forever in my bed.
On my skin.
While I am veiled in fragile sleep,
there happens a union of elements:
your old blood mixed with my cold sweat.
I can't help but
reaching out to feel
the air where you were.
The marks blacken
as the weeks pass,
as they stain deeper.
And the silence grows deafening.
Even the carpet feels dirty and permeated,
so violated,
in the wake of you.
As if it were your territory to mark.
As if.
What remains is naught.
I own nothing but my soul,
tattered and tired,
a weather-stained tome
of regrets and grievances.
Though the pages hang,
wet and flimsy,
they dry slowly
and find themselves still readable.
This is the heart of the soul:
It bruises, but it sustains.
But.
If only to bring the soul into water,
clear and new;
If only.
And at the end of it,
I could scrub for hours.
But you'd still linger there.
On my sheets.
Your sheets.
Our bed.