The Empty Room
his jean jacket hangs waiting on the chair.
his floor is littered with gum wrappers and scratched lyrics
and crumpled tube socks
and little pieces of him.
i press my face into his pillow where his smell is the strongest.
his letter is clutched in my hand,
and i imagine him there.
his sleepy eyes half propped open,
his gapped and toothy grin wide.
the flannel sheets are soft beneath my raw skin and
i can feel the vibrations from the amp he left on.
it is silent in here.
in his empty room.
he is gone.
buried in the dirt with every dream and hope we had together
and i am here,
among the tangles of the cords on the floor.
the floor cool and unforgiving,
like every day leading up to this one.
his red guitar stares at me from above
and rage rises inside of me.
bubbling boiling bursting forth
i smash his favorite red guitar
against the floor.
the wall.
the
desk.
i smash it until it is littered with the other pieces of him
and the swollen sadness inside of me subsides.
Copyright © Chelsea Carrera | Year Posted 2015
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