What Remains
I see no reason to cease my writing
to you, that is at least to the idea of
you, the you that I once knew;
I’m writing to what remains.
I’m sorry for letting you see
the mess that I really am.
What remains of the bloody and bruised
work of art on my back has
faded away with time.
I used to worry that my brother
or Mom would see what I’d done to myself,
the shame I’d brought to their name.
The bruises and welts have left my world,
in much the same way you have,
leaving behind a canvas with only
the memory of what occurred.
I barely hear the screams of my knees
and the groans of my lower back these days;
they’re insignificant compared to
what I’ve done to myself.
I guess I’m doing better.
I’m not exactly alone anymore, but
there’s nothing wrong with being alone.
I can do with the absence of those around me,
but it’s the absence of you...
it’s the absence of that woman
I once knew and fell in love with
that kills me on the inside
more and more each and every day.
You tore away at the trust and love that
I was capable of giving. I will never be
the same man you said you loved
in much the same way
you will never be
the same the woman I said I loved.
I’ve got to work with what remains of me,
and hopefully contribute something to this world
before there isn’t any of me left.
You still da best.