Forward      To The Lovers Who Had The Scraps

 

i’m sorry that i’m sorry,

i know i’m difficult to love

can’t help but flinch away from nose kisses

              and shriek under the tightest hugs

or scream when you snuggle closer

              and crawl into closets where dirty sneakers mark my grave—

you see, i’ve been shoved into dark corners before,

and I’m not tied to the bedposts by nylon anymore,

but there’s a part of my mind stuck on repeat:

a curl to the lip, fingers cupped around my lips

              “hush”                

these are the triggers that you’ll never hear go off

                                           “hush”

the adrenaline shots of my heartbeat

              “hush”                

these scratches earned from my silence

                                           “hush”

and it’s developed into a sickness which

lashes from my tongue or burns through my touch

from a game of memory roulette

and i’m sorry, so very sorry,

i keep killing our futures

 

Signed

Leona Wilde