sunday evening monologues

I'm bankrupt in my heart.

I'm a cancer, meaning I eat away at your edges until it's too late. Too bad you couldn't read me on the scan, I was just a pale purple on the x-ray and then I exploded. I multiply and multiply until your entire body is screaming, and you think you want me, but you

fall
apart.

This isn't a question of to love or not to love, because there is no question. I want to curl up quietly in your bedsheets and wait for you to go to sleep; if you don't notice I'm there, will you let me stay? Will you forget that I turned your bones to dust and your heart to ash, and can you love me again?

See, everyone is telling me I spent hours trying to carve your name into everything I could find, but that the rain kept washing it away, and it's hard because I want the name there. And I would be on hands and knees, begging God or whomever makes the dust spin in the sunset if I thought you would come back, or stay.

What are you, a gemini, or a capricorn, or something? I don't know my astrology, but we were tied together like my ribs, and I took my coat hangers and decorated my closet with you, so I could wear you to remember you. And I didn't read my horoscope, but it turns out that I just end up screwing up and infecting the crowd.

Logically, I should just give up, but logic has nothing to do with pale fingertips and even paler eyes when I'm crying over you.

I love you.