I keep trying to extract you from all the places you dug yourself into my skin. You nestled yourself inside of spots that don’t even make sense. It would be easy to say: Here, this is my heart, this is where you did the damage. It’s much harder to make light of why on the worst days, even my hands feel like they’re on the wrong wrist. Like trying to grab anything other than you is a mistake. This pen used to be my best tool but now it feels like it’s always out to get me. I sit down to write & before I know it, your name is the only thing on the page. How many more ways can I dress up your leaving? I’ve said space so many times it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore. I’m always reading about learning to accept an apology you never got, but what are you supposed to do when it comes 3 months after the fact? When all that anger you’ve been harboring evaporates & you’re just left with all these pieces that don’t quite fit right anymore. With muscle memory that seems to be in overdrive. I think I was more content when I was dreaming up all the “if we ever spoke again” scenarios. Before the blow. When I could still wake up. Look at all these new metaphors for longing; all the ways I had to get creative with my feelings. The way that I loved you only ever sleeping in-between pages you’re never going to read.
Angelea Lowes, Closure, from An Ode to Dead Fish (via wildfairy)
