The Child He Made Me

He is a fire in my mind. An ache that has no salve.
His very existence drives me into childish fits.
He made me make a mask of polite silence.
When underneath I strike a thousand blows.
I'm supposed to be brave, be adult, be reasonable.
Fuck reason, fuck polite, fuck ok and fuck him.
Go right ahead.
You let him into your home, you let him into your bed, you let him into you. You led him to the place where there should be only one memory.
I wonder, did it scare you? Or did you devour him at his first touch and in turn ignite my remains within you and discard the ash
in trade for his fevered embrace.
Did you ever once wake up in the middle of the night
and for a few sleepy seconds think he was me?
His head on my pillow, his hand on your neck.
You gave him my place on this earth. You replaced me like a used car for a newer exciting model.
Now you're glad we can talk like friends. Now you don't have to feel guilty anymore. As though my conversation is a subliminal affirmation of your actions. Thank god I've shown progress, it must have been keeping you up at night thinking that somewhere off in the wide world I was lying alone and crying, betrayed and broken.
I doubt you loose any sleep over me. You just lose it over him, or under.
If your walls could talk they'd be calling for me.
The bed we shared weeps with each spring creaking.
When the lights go out the bulbs close their eyes.
The sheets sigh with relief as they're kicked off to the floor
to not be tangled with you.
Quick cuts in my mind, your face, mouth open, eyes closed. Your hands on his arms. Your legs wrapped in his.
You're touching him, how can you give that gift twice?
Can you love him yet?
Am I really gone?
Is this the end?
Don't call here again.