Shackeled to a Nothing

You fell for ragdoll irises, but somehow what you got was carousel reflections from broken glass.

I believed that not all broken things are irreplaceable, like diaries filled with the records of spoken poetry and the way love can spend twilight like a currency.
            But in the end dementia can swallow bleeding freckles and burn a toxic mercury from the ashes of yesterday, last summer and winter sandboxes.


       
        I slipped into hopeful idea that cyanide belly buttons could weave pieces of tomorrow into the tangles of my littered hips, because I was afraid to look back.
             
  But I forgot to look at the way swaying open cross hatched threads had darkened the bruises beneath your nails already, and without realising I asked you to feed me tonics of lithium when you were just an addict, someone for whom the price of numbing would never be something you were unwilling to pay.




        Isn't it ironic that the first time you kissed me, I cringed, and then you lost your balance and fell over backwards?
But not for me.  I was forgotten, replaced, blind, and had too much of an imagination.

The broken can't save the shattered- that's an oxymoron, just like you are, was, and will always be.

Cancelled out by existing, and unable to go anywhere.


      At least I can go back, even if I don't sleep at night because of it.

    You just stand still.