PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Those brash and ominous brown boxes

Separate this fate from fiction,

Sealing inside both the memories and the hope.

My world reluctantly shifts on its tear-rusted hinges,

But I lie motionless in this bed

That smells of Him,

No, Worse,

That smells of Us.

My shampoo,

His deodorant,

My body spray,

His sweat.

And it is paralyzing.

I want to burn the sheets, the pillows, the blankets,

Even the mattress.

It's apparent the walls are closing in on me.

I desire to stay,

But my feet know to flea

To anywhere but here.

That red-haired beacon to the East calls,

Away from the blizzard of California,

And into the summer of Utah.

Some might say that is backwards,

And I would say "Check your thermometer."

He bowled me over with his kiss,

And then struck me out of his life.

I was just that pesky pin that took longer to fall.

The purple rough draft paper resembles my heart,

Bleeding so profusely that the blood

is still almost blue when it reaches the surface.

He has a myriad of things to live for,

While I depend

On the memories

Packed in those brown boxes.