Buoyed. Up and up. A ribbon like tether grazing the ground, simple enough to snag. And you told me once that there’s a cancer in me and you can’t bear to watch my cells battle it out. You were the disease and I cut you from me in slivers until nothing remained but the imprint of what you once touched. The damp outline of love.
All the sad songs you told me not to read into—the life we only lived between the lines.
Yesterday we were infested and today the ants are gone.
He left an entire watermelon out to lure them and when it was black three levels deep he flushed the colony down the sink and that was the end of that.
So I disinfect all my surfaces and remember what it was like before I met him. Before the fixes were simple. Before I knew what it was to want to commit, to want to grow, to grow up and grow old with someone.
How everything changes when you find the right fruit, when it’s already ripened, juicy and just laid out waiting for you.
I am teaching myself to write when I’m happy. What’s the emoji for it’s about fucking time? All those years I thought suffering was romantic, pacing bridges like it wasn’t so far to fall. Floundering in a world of oceans with no turtle shell. Nurturing the darkness and refusing to see that hurting myself only hurts me. And that sounds simple enough so why was it so hard to read?
Here’s what I’ve learned in my years of silence—when it’s good, when it’s really fucking life changing, you don’t need a platform, you don’t need an audience, you just need each other. A comfortable weight. A warmth that’s heavy without holding you down. The strength at your back.
The last bus home.