By Summer Finkelsen
The bathroom mirror dances with me
When I wash you out of my mouth
Her reflection sings a
song of triumph
lovestruck trills of infatuation
which wither into sadness
and into an emptiness
that collapses in my ribs.
Words about you and what you did march out of my mouth
and stomp on anyone who tries to reason with me.
I know.
This isn’t healthy.
Because of you.
You have me in your freckled arms,
watching the T.V flash violet fractured light.
You trace your name on my side
as I fall heavy and away from you.
But,
tomorrow you will be with another.
Stroking her barbwire hair and
you bleed
as she falls asleep.
You tell me,
you are no good for me.
Your whole facade is based around this.
And trust me,
I believe you.
But that doesn’t forgive the thoughts
tinkering in my head
screaming like a wild boar
at 4 am
when you are fast asleep
with someone else.
Someone that’s not me.
And I’m not jealous of her
or her hair in between your fingers.
I’m jealous of you
and the freedom you have
to do as you please
and
having me
still begging on my knees
Post Script Magazine. 