let me tell you how

i write.

when my grandparents

read my book for the first time,

they called me asking me if i was sad.

i remember a time when i would have said yes.

would have told them that the bloody imagery

and the gaping pit oozing metaphors was a mirror

of how i feel all the time.

but today, i smile.

today, i laugh at such an idea—

me, sad.

me, not over you.

me, broken.

you see, there's a small part of me

that is just that—

sad, broken, not over you (etc.)

but it is barely a chip of my heart.

a lone dust particle floating in clean air.

when i want to write about you

like you still make my lungs feel stapled

to the wall with my rib cage,

like you still have your claws sunk into my stomach,

i visit this place.

it is dark there.

there is no light switch i can flip on when i enter,

though maybe that is for the best.

if it were light i may be forced to see your face.

but when i walk in, i can hear your laughter.

i take a seat on the ground and i can feel your hand brushing away my hair.

i let the nausea flood my throat

and i let the tears flow

and i grab the pen.

i let what now is an ounce of hurt

grow again until it weighs enough to crush me.

like it once did.

when the poem ends,

i stand up and swallow the pain

down,

down,

down,

until i am once again smiling,

once again laughing

at the notion of the monster you were.

i lock the door when i leave.

put the key in my pocket.

i do not know if i will ever be able

to throw it away.

-c.h.