She comes back to me in flashes. Like 3 am dreams I can’t unmake, and uncomfortable nights between the past, a present I miss, and their battle in the silence. She comes back to me in flashes. Like a whisper I wont let myself forget.
Her towering frame folds into me in overlapping heaves of quiet madness. And her eyes flicker and move and her lips churn in voices I can no longer hear.
. . .But she loves me.
Her love nooses around my neck and marks its territory. It twists into these contours and walks with me. It gullies through my quiet thinking and chokes me. It bangs against these aching walls, and haunts me empty.
But she loves me. . .
I dream of her love in dreams I will not dare to have. In them, she captures me whole and eats me.
I cannot un-break and still, she breaks me. She has programmed me to succumb.
. . .But she loves me. . .
She loves me enough to steal the only blood I know. She wants to keep me. She wants me to herself so she sits by me as we watch the thing we love the most destroy itself with her wizardry.
She will have the best of me.
The world cheers on in celebration, not wanting to be reminded of the places I have been. So I masquerade between their world and mine, part losing myself in this make-believe.
Sometimes it strikes me weak. The memory of her death punches through the atmosphere in a gasp that swears to swallow me.
So I weave curtains with these tears and paint patterns with these stories no one else can understand, and drape them around me.
In life, she made nothing of me. In death she makes me strange.
But she loves me.