thepaintedside

there is a grave outside my door. just down the stairs and to the right—I look away as I pass by, and keep my eyes trained on the light.

everyday I writhe my hands, resist the urge to turn my head, repeat the things that you have said, and remember why there is a grave:

you put it there, you want it there. and what I want will fade away.

there is no body in the grave, it’s emptiness is what I fear. there used to be a living man, coming in to visit here, smiling from outside the door. but now there is a vacant plot, taunting me with days before, reminding me of what’s been lost.

flowers grow from tainted ground, all around my scarlet door. flowers grow where he once stood, a shadow that will keep the score.