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tell Rufi I won't be coming home.

published: 7-12-2019

 

the walls are coming down
like a tornado
leaving only the floor of the kitchen intact
your pillar of a fridge in its place.

the light streams out from the windows
soft and white and pleated
and I lie here on the floor, in the sun

the borders between the worlds grow thin beneath my fingers
but I can feel them scabbing over
like a six-year-old's skinned knee on the school playground
and your voice grows soft, grows weak, grows unsteady
don't go! I just got you back!

bent over a bathroom sink
scissors in one hand
and rivulets of blood pouring down the other
but it's just a nick, just a scrape
red mixing with blonde with blue, clogging the drains

I told you I wanted to cut my hair.
and while I feel free now
just give it a week

just give it a week.
you'll feel fine.

but I don't feel fine at all

missing two-thirds of my heart,
where am I supposed to go from here?
a beginning, and a middle,
but no end
and no closure

perhaps this is my fate,
to always disappear into the night without a trace.
did you search for me?
drag your boots through the mud, through the snow,
cloak wrapped desperately around your face to breathe

never truly dying,
just ceasing to exist.

Morgan, if you're there,
before you leave,
tell Rufi I won't be coming home.