Resurrecting What Can Never Be Saved
Longing is wishing that sorrow
is more than lonely reproductions
of numbed - near death words,
resurrected on brittle pages
in grays of abstract form.
Once vivid, sensual pleasures shared,
faded in the dusk of many sunless years.
Separated loss - the burden heavily borne,
weightless now on broke down back,
endurance yoked secure.
It is time that dulls the feeling.
without feeling no memory exists.
I can’t describe you back to living,
I’m so desperate to recapture the pain,
it’s the only proof that you and I ever loved.
I do not remember how this poem begins, but I do remember that it begins with a Sunday morning.
It is a Sunday morning with wilting petals from picked roses in a shimmering vase and the steam from my mother’s iron that I think of you.
It is a Sunday morning, chimes murmuring softly to one another in hushed tones, bumblebees buzzing along the marrow of my bones and grasshoppers clicking and chirping in brisk mourning whilst my thoughts place the spotlight on you.
It is a Sunday morning with my pink-tinged knuckles and scabbing scratches flush against the wooden surface of my dinged up table that I realize I hated you.
It is a Sunday morning that green fills my lungs and specks of light dances behind my eyes that I dip a toe into the flinching current of coming to terms with hating you.
It is also a Sunday morning that a warm cloak of wool memories of loving you wraps about me tightly.
It is a Sunday morning with vines snaking across my liver and intestines tightening in curiosity when I peel away the tape that burns my chapped lips, my unused tongue wetting the poor skin as I taste honesty once more.
It is a Sunday afternoon with my body swimming against the crippled clean sheets of my bed and my room humming around me that I allow myself to remember you.
It is a Sunday afternoon when I am alone with my bare, dry skin speckled pink and brown and stomach rolls and spring air sighing against my blinds and screen that I remember how judgmental you were.
I remember how stern and firm and professional you were, so like my own mother whose tongue only knows how to mold her opinions into the format of fact.
I remember how you were always so insecure about your broad shoulders and your sagging stomach and how eating disorders were a trigger to you.
I remember how we only had to talk for a few months to become close as could be, sharing a cocoon but separated by a thin wall with us smiling down and giggling at the secret only we knew.
I remember your glasses and how the sun glinted against your dark eyes, making them gleam a brilliant gold and I remember the slope of your nose and how I wanted to pepper it with soft kisses.
I remember your obsession with Dan and Phil as well as the color yellow and sunflowers so now I cannot look at a field without thriving to dedicate it to your being.
I remember that you are a Ravenclaw and you are the rarest personality type in the world and your liking to the word, “euphoria”.
I remember that you had three to four panic attacks a week and that shaving felt like cleanliness to you and how makeup was your only key to the confidence you so craved.
I also remember the thrumming doom that sinked and bubbled under my skin as my own homemade tumor when I realized a few weeks after confessing to you that I did not see you as a lover, as a partner, or as someone to romance.
I remember how you made me cry for the first time and how it was the last time you made me cry because I never again let you have the chance to make me cry.
And oh, do I remember how you always remained professional with those you were distant from and the chill that dripped down from my eyes to my toes when you became professional to me.
It is a Sunday afternoon that I shrink away from the entangled cotton of my dreamcatcher when I dare let myself whisper the fact that yes, I did agree with that person you didn’t but only silently and in my head because they were someone you did not like and I could not afford becoming that.
But I did indeed, in my head.
It was a Sunday afternoon that I bow my head to my lap with my palms slick with my saliva and snot and tears with only the creaking walls and maybe, the inquiring lamp to the side, as witness to my confession that I hated you.
That I hated you and dislike you and love you.
It is a Sunday night that I take the artwork that I had drawn and dutifully colored in with the paint made from the colors of my veins and neurons and threw it away.
It is a Sunday night that I give into the temptation that itches and cackles in my ear to look at your profile again, looking through your activity before shutting my phone off in disappointment in myself. It is a drug, one I indulge and inject into myself to free myself of your insomnia.
It is a Sunday night that I wonder freely to myself and only to myself because I had checked my closet and behind my doors and under every nook and cranny before doing so if you also think of me on a Sunday night just like this.
It is also a Sunday night that I shove my way towards the kitchen and slam the clay pot with you in it to the ground, kneeling down to grasp at the shards that dig under the skin of my palms when I slit myself with one.
It is a Sunday night that I plant a seed with trembling fingers under my skin in that slit and here it is, I can see and feel the leaves of that sunflower in me brushing underneath my skin and ready to burst again.
It is on a Monday morning, at the silent tick of 12:01 a.m that I admit to myself that I had gone through the stages of grief when it came to losing you.
It is on a Monday morning at 12:03 a.m that I know I am still struggling to overcome denial and acceptance. I had already checked the boxes for bargaining and depression and anger and checked them again and again until they were covered in ticks but even then, I probably missed a few because I am forgetful.
But it is today, on this Sunday afternoon with a poem that I wrote at 3:58 p.m to 5:13 p.m with my battery at 17% that I begin to accept a little more and grieve a little more and say goodbye a little more sincerely with this rewritten copy of a well-torn up poem in my hands.
In seven years, the sunflower I plowed under my skin will be the only evidence left of you, the scar healing wonderfully and the plant doing well as I water it as I do the other plants because I care for myself.
In seven years, all my cells will have been replaced with ones anew and my body will no longer know the smears of tears you caused or the craving for your long paragraphs of compliments and little laughing emojis.
It is also in seven years that my body will finally be mine again and you will be gone and dead and I have accepted that and even been grateful for that and all that you were and I would like to tell you that yes, I hated you and dislike you and love you. And yes, I will still think you, that is true.
But no, sunflower, I will not miss you.
- the sunday morning i kissed your purple hues before spitting on your boots.
3 notes · View notes
I associate you with the color yellow.
If people had colors, that’s what I think you would be.
You are the golden hour.
Where the sun is beginning to set and bathes everything
in this stunning golden glow and people
just want to take pictures because it’s so beautiful.
You have this glow about you.
You’re radiant. And warm.
Being around you feels like when you are outside
and it is not hot but the sun is out and everything is peaceful.
You make me feel safe, you feel like home.
You would be a darker yellow, because while you
do have darkness inside you it does not
diminish how truly stunning you are.
You are a living reminder that just because something
is dark, does not mean it cannot also be radiant.
68 notes · View notes