Monday, April 4, 2011

Day 626: Routine

The first morning you wake up alone
You will feel the thickness of the air under your tongue
You will throw away all of the lists you ever made
Curse god for his imperfection
You will throw salt over your right shoulder hoping to strike anything that calls itself good
Square in the eye

You will call every prayer a mistake
Every laugh, a lie
The parts of you that are left
Will declare war on the parts that remember
Dismantle the parts that are cracked and severed but refused to break off
You resist the healing

The first night you find yourself sleeping in an empty ocean of sheets
You will curse in every way you know how
To the softens you once dreamt to
When you fall into the darkness
Into the rhythm of your slumber
A part of you dies there
Every time
That is the only promise you allow yourself to make
For months
Sometimes years

And then a part of you moves
in a way you have forgotten
a mistake is made
in the best of ways
something disrupts the rhythm
the routine of pain starts to sting
makes your body break in the only way it still can
there is a day
when waking is no longer shaking the dry and used parts of yourselves to dust
and you find your body covered in earth
parts of you hidden in the cracks that were left when your world changed
and she left you
with nothing
but the mo(u)rning

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