There is an old street sign
Holding your name
That I often gaze upward at as I round your corner
And you’re always standing in the door frame like a shadow
Like rain pattering on an empty swing.
You leave this heavy hand print on my ribcage
Where someone has been squeezing me heart
And this is not a disease that can be cut from the flesh
It dwells and it feeds and it multiplies
One day I will drown you in all my tears and you feel what it is to be real
The soft humanity that you drove off with
You must have left me your heart
So now I have twice the heartache
And no stethoscope can feel my pulse.
There is something freeing in believing in insanity.
Taking the fault away from love
and placing it in the hands of some drip of chaos.
We’d like to think it’s insanity. Because there is no cure for lack of love.
There is no cure for an empty door frame.
Or this pang in my chest when I look at your skin stretched across your skull
Or the sounds that rush through my mouth when my walls fall down
And I’m drowning again and you aren’t crying.
You’re never crying and I’m always crying.
Well that’s a lie.
You cry tears of insanity. Fake tears.
You cry because you have no heart and you don’t even know it.
It’s never going to heal and that is not even sad. That’s redeeming.
It’s not my fault. I’m not doing anything wrong.
It’s just broken.
Once I tried to paste it together with glue.
And sew it together with ribbons I found in that blue drawer.
And stuff it in so tight that the cracks would just mend.
But sometimes I look down and see it poking out of my chest.
And I wonder how broken things ever get fixed.
I try to make sense of my big lump of flesh. But screws fall out.
I have no insurance.
Then I see you in that door frame again and I wonder if you’ll always be there. Or if you’re not there at all and I’m just clinging to this little image in my head.
I think one day I’ll stop waiting for you to come home.
And I’ll break the door frame.