#edithallanpoe

I’ve scrubbed every inch of my life clean of you. I’ve thrown out every blanket, every sheet or pillow or towel that has touched your body. It won’t be touching mine. I’ve blacklisted your number and blocked your profiles, never to be visited again. We will never be friends. I’ve thrown you out of my house in garbage bags and plastic totes, locked the front door and bolted the windows. My new car is one that never held you, your venom never touched the seats. I even packed away my favorite dress-the one I wore on our first date. I’ve bleached the walls of my skull, scoured your face from memory. I deleted every single photo of you, especially the ones with me. So imagine my surprise, my shock, my absolute horror- when a picture of us is found on my computer. And although you make my stomach turn, yours is not the face I’m staring at. It’s mine I can’t tear away from, grinning so big in my favorite velvet hat. Chipped black nail polish and head tilted towards yours- I’m absolutely glowing, all-consuming happiness in the before. I suppose it’s only fitting that I’ve since lost that hat. Because the girl that was wearing it, I’ll never get back.

Charles Bukowski said to find what you love and let it kill you. And I just keep searching. And finding. And dying. So I can’t help but wonder how many deaths I must survive before there’s nothing left to love.

Why bother; he will only get tired of the ice cubes in my veins and the effort it takes to melt them.

Please, stop telling girls they are made of stardust and galaxies. When I fall into a heap, when I collapse; it is not a star exploding. It is not rebirth. It is me. I am exploding. I am crumbling. It is pure, unbridled, sorrow that brings me to my knees. My tears do not create planets and these eyes they fall from can see the moon everyone keeps telling me beats in my chest The sky did not birth me and the rings of Saturn are not mine to lay claim to I am meager, supple flesh and the blood that is filling this bathroom sink This is not stardust I cut away, It is human mistake. By the white of my bones, and the nebulas I never was, I beg you Do not make others believe their defeat will create worlds. The stars do not shine from desperation.

Last week, I read about how lonely people take extra hot showers to make up for the warmth they’re missing. And it’s been four days and my body is still covered in red welts and I just wish you’d talk to me.

You say, “I just need to be alone for a while. It’s not fair to you.” But That just means you will be holding bodies other than mine. And will they know to run their fingers through your hair That way that you like? Will the next girl know you hate onions, but will always order fried pickles. How long will it take them to memorize the lines on your face or remember which pocket you keep the car keys in It makes me sick to wonder. It makes me want to hold a body other than my own and learn exactly when to dig my nails into his back.

I want to fuck and smoke and drink like I’m dying because it feels like I’m dying. It feels like the part of me required for commitment and love and healthy relationships is gone- broken, stolen, never existed. Like I’ll just keep braiding red flags together until I have a noose.

October 12th