I still feel you in me.

Every night, I grasp your bones to fall asleep.  I hold them close to me too, like their coldness might warm me miraculously, a wish that feels something like manifesting death into life.  Even though you’re dead and gone, I still need your skeleton to sing me lullabies.  I still need your bones to hold me close.  I still ache for your embrace even though I know it will hurt me unbearably because it won’t really be you who will be doing it.  It will be your ghost.  We are walking around on the streets on this earth like half-people, you and I.  We yearn for shelter, we yearn for a home.  We thought we saw the lights on in a window.  This pain is a long staircase in a house with no doors.  No pill, no sign of life.  You’re living through me, you’re living for me.  My body is haunted by yours.  All thoughts of you leave me barren, all words of you leave a bitter taste in the back of my mouth.  I spit them out.  I stare at them abhorrently in the sink; all mutilated and sour and dripping with you, dripping with me.  They are alive.  I am terrified of my heart and the manner in which it stops and starts.   It knows that it still belongs to you and no matter how I try to forget the truth, it always has.  I need to purge this sickness out.  I tread the earth with the wish that if I’m careless enough I will unravel beautifully if I catch myself on a corner, like a stray thread from my most-loved sweater.  I find new ways to bleed.  I cut myself on flowers.  I read too much.  I pray that a papercut may secrete enough blood to drain me dry.  And even so, I would most certainly spill out your blood instead of mine.  

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