There is a burning hot temple in the center of my mind. It’s where I go to in order to take out the trash. One, the worth I thought I had when you never quite figured out the right way to look at me when I enter the room. The weight of that emptiness.
Two, my heart.
Three, those many moons I bagged under your eyes in hopes you would understand how restless it made me the first time you hesitated before saying, I love you.
Four, (or was it five, six, this may be all of them) it got to the point my bones shuddered whenever anyone said your name.
Five, it wasn’t out of passion.
Six, Fear. Fear capital and encompassing, my soul a riddle only the black holes of your intimidation and indifference knew how to solve.
Seven, I was never the sea, darling.
Eight, I was the goddamn ocean, I was tectonic plates, I was bullets and fragments and sacred geometry that makes so much sense you could fuck yourself to it, I mean I was vulgar and impenetrable, I was unstoppable, I was unstoppable, I was un-stoppable. and all of this is in past tense.
Nine, the days it took me to decide to leave you.
Ten, I’ve got a lot of trash to take out and Atlas is too heavy, so I decided to get high for the first time in a year and I’m not even sure if I trust myself anymore.
Eleven, at least this time it isn’t taking shots and slamming whiskey, I was getting tired of the ring lines of bruises on my floor.
Twelve, I haven’t even got to the bruises yet?
Thirteen, why did it take so long?
Fourteen, I don’t know whether or not you taught me more about breaking hearts or letting people break mine.
Fifteen, there are ice bergs inside my chest now and they don’t fit in this goddamn trash, so what inferno of a memory do I have to reminisce in order to fuel what I need to melt the ice you fucked my chest into?
Sixteen, I’ve been trying to find teeth that bite as hard as yours. I haven’t wanted tender things in three years.
Seventeen, that isn’t me.
Eighteen, it’s not a coincidence.
Nineteen, none of these are me. You injected my identity like it was a dime bag not worth picking off the streets.
Twenty, and you knew how high we liked to get. So tell me why it got so bad the substance always felt better than what you had to offer me with your company.
Eighty, the average beats per minute of the human heart.
How I don’t have one anymore.
Twenty one, I kept thinking I could love your anger into remission. I didn’t realize the disease wasn’t linked to my inability to love you properly, that I wasn’t to blame, that I blame myself for all of this.
Twenty two, It’s my fault.
Twenty two, It’s my fault.
Twenty two, I’ll always think it’s my fault.
Twenty three, all the albums I can’t listen to now because they remind me of the stupid love we were never good at doing anything to except breaking.
Twenty four, the number of ribs you’ve left bruises on.
Twenty four, the hours in a day. How the clock became my enemy when I was with you and now I don’t know how to tell the time anymore, so I keep missing the sunset and sometimes I wonder if that’s what you were after the whole time.
Twenty six, because there’s no way in hell it could have been me.
Twenty seven, and the nights never belonged to us, anyway. All along you were sucking them into your mouth, unwilling to kiss me.
Twenty eight, unwilling to fuck me. Oh, I had problems with that one. It doesn’t even need a metaphor.
Twenty nine, most days I still have trouble accepting that there are people who genuinely wish to love me.
Thirty, the belief I’m stuck with that it can’t be true.
Thirty one, the scars on my body because of you.
Thirty two, the perfect ending. I don’t want it.
There is a burning hot temple in the center of my mind. I go there to make wishes off shooting stars and what’s left of the dandelions that had been dying in the back of my heart. I’m counting them again tonight and wishing on epiphanies.
One — day maybe I’ll be able to understand that it wasn’t my fault and it’s okay that it isn’t happening today or what feels like any time soon or at all.
Two. I still take too many things to heart and I bruise easier than ever, but I let myself dance in the rain recently and surviving was worth it.
Three. That’s all it took. Return to the rain. I could have never existed as a mermaid in the drought of what vast emptiness you felt for me.
Four. I have enough strength and self worth to fall in love with someone else, because
Four. I am the goddamn ocean. I am tectonic plates. I am bullets and fragments and sacred geometry that makes so much sense you’ll fuck yourself to it. I mean I am vulgar and impenetrable. I am unstoppable. I am unstoppable. I am unstoppable, and
Four, the intoxication is so addicting I just might let myself do it. On weekends I welcome her to get lost in the rabbit hole of my consciousness, what meets at the apex of the many realities I live inside of at any given time.
Five. I am learning to accept my own madness.
Six. It fucks me better than you ever did.
Seven. That’s what it took for me to get it. Madness. I love myself better than you did.