My heart feels squeezed out when I write about you.
Lighter, and more free to beat against its veins, and ligaments, and bones. I need to let go of as much as I can so that I can thrive into the future, free of the weight of having known you and your passing.
When you would cry to me,
when you swallowed all those pills
I never felt you were a burden.
The weight of having known you can crush me some days.
I cannot go on
a pancake of a person.
So, I unload your memory onto pages of dry pulp and dye
and pray you cannot seep back beneath my skin
where you sometimes make a home.
Pages of you act like scripture for a god I don’t believe in,
that neither of us believed in.
God does not exist,
the afterlife is not real
pages are all that house you now.
I cling to my un-belief,
but don’t have faith enough
in absolutes, to feel
convinced that you’re gone.
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 10:06 PM UTC
My heart feels squeezed out when I write about you.
Lighter, and more free to beat against its veins, and ligaments, and bones. I need to let go of as much as I can so that I can thrive into the future, free of the weight of having known you and your passing.
When you would cry to me,
when you swallowed all those pills
I never felt you were a burden.
The weight of having known you can crush me some days.
I cannot go on
a pancake of a person.
So, I unload your memory onto pages of dry pulp and dye
and pray you cannot seep back beneath my skin
where you sometimes make a home.
Pages of you act like scripture for a god I don’t believe in,
that neither of us believed in.
God does not exist,
the afterlife is not real
pages are all that house you now.
I cling to my un-belief,
but don’t have faith enough
in absolutes, to feel
convinced that you’re gone.
Request permission to use this poem