What If I Have To Live Again
What if I have to live again—
Reborn in the bone-thin hush of grief,
A jawbone grinding air,
My love trailing like a torn dress through corridors
Of someone else's dreams.
You cheated with a mirror.
I saw you smiling at your double,
Kissing her with the lips you pressed
To my forehead after midnight sobs.
How dare you touch her with my name in your mouth?
I held trauma like a child—
Rocked it, fed it milkless mornings.
It grew teeth. It learned your scent.
Now it prowls the house, breaking teacups
And whispering, “He never loved you.”
Unreturned love is a feathered god—
It flutters near the ceiling fan,
Then drops, headless, to the floor.
You never wrote back. Your silence
Was a continent. I crossed it barefoot.
Each night I waited—candlelit,
A saint in curlers, lipstick bleeding.
Time, the drunk uncle, sat beside me,
Rattling his keys, leering,
Telling me you'd never come home.
The sea was shallow. It mocked me.
I went in to drown but hit my knees.
Even death denied me the depth.
Before I leave this to you—
My wrists, my notebooks, my impossible verbs—
Know this: the trees are dead.
The bushes are brown. The wind
Has given up on speech.
I was blind, yes,
But now I choose to look away.
Copyright ©
James Mclain
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