You are the chandelier
swinging in the next room.
The broken time machine
that prayers couldn’t fix.
All those songs I swear I buried
but still manage to sit heavy like a hornet’s nest in my ears.
If you thought all that screaming was about someone else,
then you were only mostly wrong.
My hands have been so busy since you decided
to be brave for somebody new,
and I still haven’t felt a single thing.
There was a point to this body
before all it did was wait for you to hold it,
and I must be more than what you were too tired to love,
but some days I still look for you in all the cracking ceilings.
I tried looking for myself once,
but it just didn’t feel right.
I’d wait around here for what might happen,
but I am so tired of turning myself
into a graveyard
just so you can feel sorry enough to bring me flowers.
Save your shaking hands, and save your amens.
This isn’t about mourning anymore,
it’s about moving on.
I am spelling my alone differently
until it stops meaning ‘without you’
and starts meaning ‘with myself.’
There are a thousand ways to write about you leaving
and even more to say that I don’t want to anymore.
If I can’t forget the bodies that left,
then I am going to remember the ones that stayed,
and mine will always be the one I thank first. —Y.Z, what I learned while writing this (via rustyvoices)