Stench




I once had hands
that reeked of
sentiment.
You couldn't know
how heavy that
was,
to carry dead weight
and pretend
I immune
to the stench
of us.
It was work,
and such a waste,
to put
so much stock
in the look
of permanence
in your brow.
HOW DARE YOU

HAVE THE LOOK

OF PERMANENCE

IN

YOUR

BROW.

Arched
and ungroomed -
like raw honesty
and trust.
Like unhinged arms,
open chest,
and visible heart.
Knowing I
incapable
of looking any lower.
Of noticing
the lengths your
lashes would grow
to wipe away
our memory
before it settled
in your eye.

You,
you would never
settle for me.
And I wish to say
I wouldn't settle
for less;
but we both know
pigs can't fly.
Yet, that fact
never stopped me
from attaching doves
to your chest,
threading your clothes
out of the
finest clouds,
and stapling you
to the sky.

I shouldn't miss it.
Shouldn't
crave the days
of such
leprosy.
But I miss being
fallen flesh.
I miss eroding muscle.
I miss splintering
enough
bone
to ooze out
what it
was
you were
looking for in
me.

I want to go back.
Go back to
pretending.
Pretending you never
kept me
as a planet
hidden
in your pupil.
Pretend I am
still in your
orbit
and Saturn is
not the one
wearing
your rings.
Pretend not to
notice
her name
stained
on your shirt
when you convince
me
you haven't
eaten
another heart this
morning.
Pretend the way
we limped back
into comfortable
fields
(after my foot
got caught on
that text message
you sent her)
was the way
we've always walked,
we've always been,
we always will be.

It is sad.
Sad that I crave 
a stench.
A stench on hands 
that reeked
of sentiment
rather than the purity
of no scent at all...




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