S. R.

My skin won’t glisten on screens anymore, as I recall it was you who dictated rug burn thighs and left before I awoke. Every court needs a comedy so I have my teeth bared while you remember what it is you liked about his body so. So. Does she know she’s not the one I try to forget? Only two girls ever met my mama, and I drink my lunch in these romanticized memories like turpentine. Flutter like forgetting to forget, you are what you do and I am not seen because I am not your story, ten days later I can tell you’re no longer home. Will he know how the hair on your arms stands up in the summer breeze from the chill he makes come over you, sweat, yes? When he says he loves you, does he mean the bad parts too, the betrayal and the part where I am incredulous in your blasphemy? I don’t hear lyrics outside windows, I see your lips move to sad songs. Let me go, I don’t have backwards conversations post-conviction so you can leave once but the second time you are revoked like a name we took back on a torn page, erasure errata; deviation of the devil and omission of honor. I still smell your hair on the night I asked you to dance and you chose another, reaching back for me like space had a black hole made of matter from regret. I knew it was coming. I knew, I knew.

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