The first time love left, all the sterling silverware in the house tarnished
in a split second and I stayed in bed for two weeks straight.
The landlord eventually stopped calling to collect the overdue rent
and started calling to ask if I was alive instead.
But love’s departure left me a zombie, gutted and bloody,
and my voice was a bar of soap I didn’t use for days.
That’s why when I finally spoke, every word sounded like filthy heartbreak.
The walls got so tired of my stubborn silence
that they peeled down to plaster holes and wooden bones
just to scrape off the top layer of echoes.
The second time love left, the confession that he was writing
about someone else was ten times worse than the next confession
that he was sleeping with someone else too.
That’s why all the pens miraculously ran out of ink.
And every movement felt like a rug burn,
except this time it singed the deepest in the areas closest to my heart.
I smelled his sweatshirt for hours on end until I stopped
being able to differentiate between the scent of disappointment
and the scent of wanting to shake hands with forgiveness again.
If the police had found my bones in a dry riverbed
during the second time love left, every one of ‘em would have
been engraved with loss so deep it tunneled through the marrow.
The third time love left, I thought it was the last straw.
Then I realized that I needed more straws to accomplish
my favorite habit: drinking to pass out long enough to forget him.
Everything turned the color of a bloody bicycle accident
and learning how to grip the handlebars and get back on the seat
was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
They don’t ever make helmets fucking tough enough
to protect against loss like this.
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The Last Three Times Love Left
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