This bed is not yours, nor mine
It’s the most comfortable thing in this room.
Remember how you always hated white?
The bed does not have our memories or hushed promises woven into the sheets
And I’m not sure if that makes it valuable, or worthless.
I’m not sure you were ever real.
No no, I’m sure you were.
I don’t have sudden psychotic breaks with reality for nothing
Not human no, but you were something
You were real, in that terrifying, undeniable way that things you love always are.
Your eyes began the whole wretched cycle. They were lovely.
They were hungry.
I’d never seen eyes as blue as yours.
Your kiss sealed the deal though, that kiss was a drug in every way it could be,
Just a gentle crush of a mouth that burned. That kept burning.
Then I remember
not remembering things
What were your first words to me?
When did having conversations become like Jenga? Why did we fight?
Why was I looking so hard at you that first night?
and God, your eyes
Is there a name for that blue you drown me in?
If I say the wrong word, what happens to that illusion of structure?
Does it fall? Does it cave in?
And how loud is the sound of it falling down?
How did I even get to your house?
How did you manage to keep me there with just a few kisses and a promise that I can never remember you making?
Things fall apart, mother said, they fall: nations, buildings, people, and worse yet, the bonds between them and ours suffered a slow death.
She told me “Things fall apart. You’re on a downward spiral but it isn’t bottomless. She called you moral-less
What does it say about the cycle that she was right, more or less?
By month 7, you’d stay in bed all day and wouldn’t do anything—only tug me down to bed with you and I never could stand to leave, because your mouth is so good and your moans sound divine and who gave a damn about time? I always choose my vices over my virtues.
And so I could never leave you alone in our bed.
…Maybe it was me,
I know I’d try to move and go have a life outside of that nest
but I was just so tired all the time
Tired, but still begging you to keep touching me, “just one more round baby and then I’ll go to sleep”, the deal I tried to strike every time you breathlessly asked me “if I’d had enough?” and I was so tired
but I always said no, don’t you dare stop.
My friends said I looked as though I was wasting away, but you always said I was getting so beautiful, and a lover’s opinion will trump another’s.
And then you began to leave me at night
I wanted to ask why you won’t let me go with you
And why your eyes look so hungry again,
but I’m too tired, too tired to argue, too tired to move to stop you from walking out the door
Too tired to ask
“Is it me?
Am I not pretty anymore?
And then you were gone
Gone to get a drink
I didn’t even think
That you wouldn’t come back.
You were gone.
But you weren’t!
You were at the bank and the pharmacy and the grocery
At the park when I went to clear my head you were there to meddle in it
You are on the corner of the street, you are in the back of my class boring holes through my head, lighting fires in the corners of my being.
and I don’t sleep anymore. It is too hard to resist the temptation to see if I can get my body to melt like you did…but I can’t, not like you could and I can’t sleep, I only see that terrifying blue.
And I see you
hiding in between shelves in the library was the last straw and I thought I found a place where I can finally hide from you
But God, you stand behind the psychiatrist
while he asks me why I’m not sleeping
you’re smiling from behind the orderlies while they tie me down at night for trying to tear the clothes off of my skin
trying to tear you out of me
You are the dagger to my Macbeth
Lover I have thee not
and yet I see thee still
and it’s killing me!
The Doctor often asks if I’ve any letters to send and do you know that I’ve written you a thousand times?
I usually lie and say no, and I hide them or tear them to shreds that can’t be pieced together again by all the kings men in their blue-green scrubs with their shots and their cups of pills trying to get me to sleep.
but sometimes I say “Yes! Yes, I do!”
And I push forward a letter I wrote to you
And the doctor looks at the scrawled words and pats my shoulder and says
“Is this another one of your ghosts, young lady?”