Committed to Memory

I’m not usually a “trigger warning” person, but this references abuse pretty specifically so read with caution if you have a hard time with domestic violence and things of that nature.

 

He appeared again in my dreams
speaking through my current lover, his antithesis
a phantom dimming the gaslights
and in unconscious moments
confirming sinking feelings
that haunt me when awake.

And I bury them deeper
further down with every hour
every day, my hand
on the shovel unearthing
layer after layer of dirty
laundry, from a growing list of things
unclean.
He made me feel filthy;
tarnished like second place metal.

Fuck your chicken soup,
I need lava soap for the soul
and skin I don’t want to crawl out of
every time someone looks like him
looks at me like him
walks, laughs, crosses the street
smokes a cigarette, gives a hug,
dismisses an opinion, gets too drunk,
says, “I was blacked out, how
do I know that even happened?,”
puts their hands around my neck,
my head into a wall,
and flashes through my memories
taking me back to somewhere
I never wanted to go in the first place
a broken home and a sick nostalgia
the blurred lines of consent transitioning
from dream to nightmare.

Anything Can Be Habituated

The paint here is marred like the plaster
discolored and splotched, indented – scarred.
A puncture remains from a thrown clothes iron
near where I had been sitting
on the couch, on one of those
forever nights
I was reminded
the only difference between comfort and chaos
is the strength and position of the grip.

The support beam for the blinds is bent
taking each individual shade down with it
curved at an angle as if to say
I wish I were a willow, I can only weep sunbeams.
At least the irony is pretty.

This is a broken home,
but it fits in all the right places.

Soothe

I cherish this calm –
calm as a synonym
for itself, vibrant stillness
carefully maintained contentedness
held together delicately
by the tips of fingers
worn, calloused, warm with the strength
of tending to wounds
someone else had left
knowing that they may never
fully heal.

Hands that have learned
when a dog is trembling
sometimes
the only thing to do is give-
up the printed paper, in favor
of reading the news online
despite their taste for ink
and the rustle of obituaries:
odes to the death of former selves.