Head

I am infamous for losing and forgetting things. I am the picture
perfect example of someone who would lose her head
had it not been connected to her shoulders. Is this why I cannot forget
you? Have you become an essential, connected part of me
that adheres to all the tiny bits of me – my hair, my fingernails, and
my eyelashes? I think sometimes he feels you when he touches me;
the electricity shocks his fingertips, and I am half afraid you will
mutate parts of him too by contact – like a disease. I see you
in the way he laughs, in the way he marks my skin with cursive letters
in the same shy, chicken scratch you scrawled on half pioneered thoughts.
He kisses me like I were a fragile piece of porcelain, laid out
on display in the corner of an antique shop, and his feelings
toward me remind me of when you thought I was a precious stone
in the front of the store – people window shopped for me,
but I could never be bought. I was the miracle in a city of gray;
I was the wonder in a concrete jungle that overwhelmed you into a stupor.
Your heart pumps in my ears, and I try to convince myself
the wind blowing is not the remaining parts of you on this planet.


I count the letters of your name and add those numbers to mine; I want
to find a code that equates to star-crossed. Anything for an answer.
Anything for the truth. I pay the Gods with my own sacrificed blood,
but the virginity in me was lost in attempts to fill gaping holes left by you.
Craters in my skin, stardust smeared across my lips, and I can’t help
but think you were a satellite brought here by another planet. You are
otherworldly, ethereal, and you leave me with the taste of metal
in my mouth, the smell of sulfur on my breath. Kiss me so I can taste
the air of another place, another time, another world without me.
I should be so bold to say it only tastes like three streets over, just a tad bit
sweeter. Pink cotton candy, the same color as my pills. I take them each night
before I go to sleep, counting the letters of your name again. Even written
out, our names mirror each other. Star-crossed, meant to be, soul mates
without souls, you prey on me like a lion starved for blood. I’m ravaged,
ravished, and my neck is disconnected from my shoulders. I can feel
the tendons struggling to keep what sense I have left. Am I gone?
Are they gone or merely separated? If you rip me to shreds,
does this mean I will finally do what they say: forget my head?

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