I found a needle in your purse And again What’s the point in trying when It probably broke off Away from it sharply and Into your skin
I fucking hate my Blood. What is moving beneath the surface of the first layer Mother? Is it laughter that you could remember there, Is it a Christmas morning , Or cherished moments of burnt breakfast and frustrated report cards ? Where was I in that moment- with your arms tied up in knots ? What’s the point in being a mother without Pride ? Did you forget me too ? And Did you forget the severity of that Role ? The role I needed and still need you to play? Is it all a Joke?
There was no point to the Needle I found in your purse. Did it break off in your skin ? In my bathroom , as I slept, not knowing you needed it , Thinking you’d be alright without it. Rehab did you no Good. What’s the point in Rehab? Is that why there was blood on my walls? Did it break off in your skin ? Was what moved beneath it , not flooded by waves of tears and laughter?
I’m piecing you together today, and the You I’ve always known— the one in the desert that I’ve brought myself into Find. We entered a space without place together in Utero. It reverberates. To those in act of recognizing the Hum of importance, it is a sort of Calling back home. I cannot go Home. Old mother of my mother, who first met the man of the man I know, the man I once saw in Odds of Two, even when stood alone in his Cell for days in solitude. What learning is there to receive by correction of Evening out someOne? It is true—or so I heard— that when I have grown out all my Lashings, shaking the caskets where ashes Reside. In death’s last breath, some Echo astounds me: what uttered my Father, the One who now has become my Surroundings? In lack of his Sun, what Uttered his tongue? Or what’s spent of the Young when Angels of God came and found him? I miss you in Zeros. In shapes of the days left by heroes. Craters of rock. Depressions my Earth of an Idol. A figure of Voice I’ve forgotten. The shape of the pulls of his Slur, Oxycontin. Yellow it rottens the Whites of an Eye, submerges Toxins. What’s become Emerged: an old friend was calling, Recalling the name of an Urge— my father in Dirt. When Suddenly Sons become Become stars before sleep, a dream in disguise. Running it thin as a Lie— clocks become sins, don’t send the Goodbye. At least then it seems that again— I could see you in time.
i don’t know why i’m doing this. maybe to hold myself accountable for the way i still spiral when your name comes up in my head, or maybe because if i don’t speak this somewhere, it rots deeper. and i’m tired of smelling the inside of a grief no one else recognizes as real.
there’s nothing poetic here. i’m not writing this for catharsis. i’m writing it because rage lives in my throat now, and i want to scream without having to hear myself echo back.
you said things to me that you never had to say. you made me believe we were building something— not a fantasy, but a structure. something i was supposed to trust enough to invest in.
but you were already pulling pieces from the bottom before i even knew what floor we were on. and when it collapsed, you walked away like the rubble wasn’t yours too.
i hate that i still wake up some mornings with your voice in my teeth and my body aching from dreams i can’t fully remember but always know you were in.
i hate how you turned your absence into a performance piece— blocking, deleting, vanishing like i’m some infected part of your timeline you needed to cut off for your “healing.” congrats. you erased me like a glitch. but my body still remembers.
i see you in the mundane. in the sound of a screen door. in the smell of cinnamon or fucking almond milk. in the way i instinctively brace myself for disappointment when someone shows interest in me, because they might walk too.
i hate the part of me that still worries about you. still. like some sick reflex that didn’t die with the rest of what we were.
god didn’t laugh at me. he ignored me. left me asking for a sign while you rearranged the narrative to make me the problem.
you treated me like a chapter you regretted writing. you got to leave. i stayed behind to edit the wreckage.
the worst part? you could’ve been brutal with me, and i still would’ve handed you what was left. not out of weakness, but loyalty. and that loyalty was weaponized.
one day i’ll have a life again. not this half-living limbo i’ve been pacing through since you left. i’ll have someone beside me, maybe. and still, some part of me will be calculating the risk of them vanishing the way you did— without warning, without ceremony, just gone.
and i’ll wonder: did you ever give a fuck? or was all of it disposable the second it got inconvenient?
this isn’t about closure. it’s about clarity. i need you to know— you damaged something that was trying to heal. you made me distrust my ability to love without losing myself. you taught me that being unforgettable means nothing to someone already rehearsing their exit.
we’re strangers now. fine. but you will not be a ghost. not in my life. not in my blood. i am purging this. you don’t get to linger.
no reply necessary. none would mean anything anyway.
∆Remember Us∆ 