Literature
you'll never read Murakami
I wore you like a bruise.
we were a recurring ache rendered
in watercolor and India ink,
a portrait of the loss that happens
when a wind-up bird fails to sing.
and we glutted ourselves on this idea,
that any hurt, with enough poetry,
could be made beautiful.
that, in fact, it should be.
after all,
how fiercely did you bleed,
every time I told you
I’d love you forever?
wasn't the whole point of this exercise
to test the limits of human fracture?
didn't I splinter further,
every time you said
you were leaving?
how many times did you cut yourself
just trying to write me?
how many times did it hurt too much
to even try?