great white gravity

51 /365: Untitled

So you try to think of all the ways he hurt you,

alphabetically,

And you wait for time to make them smaller,

like grapes left out turn to raisins

And when they don’t, you rank them by severity,

so you can build up stamina once the

least lethal are out of the way,

And yet––when you think you’ve finished,

what you have are not non-memories

non-regrets, the opposite of pain, nor pleasure’s twin

Similarly—you are neither a whole person

Nor shadow, dark matter,

You are the absence of him

The tea cup when it’s still warm––

The smoke above the ash pit––

So soon will the world pick you up

Will nobody remember the enormity of his transgression?

He still carries the crimson from your marrow