Monday, May 30, 2016


When he told me he was leaving me for her
I became a puddle on the floor
I cried for weeks
Didn't eat for longer
Abstained from drugs and sex.

When I could eat again
I made sure it was only food that I could pull out of the ground
With my own two hands
As if trying to uproot a path
Back to The Source.

Life became a trickle
I inched forward, sluggish in time
Fluid, slow, dripping, and liquid
Like cough syrup
I wasn't sure where I was going
I just know that I wanted to be well.


There is a version of this story I like better.

In this version
I saw all the signs without being told
I just didn't say anything because
When you love someone
You want to give them the chance
To tell the truth
And when he told me
I packed my bags
Shed no tears
Wished him a good, good life
Wished for her to keep her eyes wide, and her mouth open
Because the love he gives moves in circles of convenience.

But this is version not my story.

In my story.

I don't buy chorizo at the supermarket because it brings up too many memories of cooking dinner for him.
In this story, I keep three questions up my sleeve for future lovers:

1. Will you place the bomb of your sex inside of me?
2. Will you be too scared to touch me after?
3. Will you convince me that it is my fault?

In this version I am a chemist trying to cook up a cure for betrayal.
I wonder what it will taste like?

Coming home?
Or closing a door?