The silence of memories
You left me, but the memories stayed.
Your memory is as stubborn as you are, you left even after I refused, and your memory comes back even after I refuse.
You left me incomplete, ruining me, and your memory is ruining me completely.
One day, the news of my ruin will reach you too, and on that day, you will see despair in your own home as well.
You will want to return everything, but by then, it will be too late.
You will want to cry a lot, but tears will not come out of your eyes.
When the agony of your heart increases, then you will understand my agony.
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Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanova2 days ago in Poets
The Lesions of Devotion
Every day I set myself down on the freshly cut lawn and strip myself bare. I take my guitar and finger the frets and pick at the strings, listening for dissonance. My life is dissonance. I twist the tuning pegs until each string sounds bright. Then I kneel, calves pointing behind me, kneecaps facing forward. All exposed to the breeze. I close my eyes and play the melody.
By Paul Stewart4 days ago in Fiction
Comments (5)
Memories do haunt like ghosts. Only time will heal the hurt.
A poignant piece, outlining the stubbornness of memories. I like how you used that to describe the temperament of this lady. How even after she’s gone, her absence causes chaos in the psyche, In the heart and in your life. You cleverly gave us a glimpse of how you two are still connected, if not in person, then through your own demise. How then, she will start to feel the pain she has left you with. This piece was both deep and profound. Beautifully written 👌🏽👏🏽♥️
Beautiful
Oh, my gosh! This is so heartfelt. I think we have all been there and hoped a fleeing lover regrets the decision. There is some comfort in hoping that, and this poetic piece illustrates the feeling. Well done!
I feel this so strong