You leave yourself in parts of her,
she leaves the door open but walks faster away
just like there’s nothing else to say
except when the pain gets too loud -
she unveils hurt like a sliced passionfruit
coiled in the vein of existence,
enough to each share bites in persistently sad ways
trading hurt for hurt in raged-filled exchanges
that live and die on passive-aggression,
you: old and only half alive and you -
struggle with the tainted memories, the hive
of buzzing anxieties and thoughts and
always at a pathetic loss for words when the time comes,
she leaves the light on but there’s no comfort in that room
only dark little fantasies that subsume
she, her, this personal fear you’ve buried in your ribs
has stopped even singeing your skin,
you just keep yourself in ruin out of habit
and lavishly soak it all in.