When the sun leaves the sky and begins to rot. The deep blue begins to bruise like the flesh of a plum. A petunia. A field of blackberries. My skin is a nautical twilight tapstery. Flesh wrapped together by the absence of light. A jacket of swelling lesions. When you’ve lived so long in the dark. You believe sunlight will burn you. But after all this time, you’ve realized your bruises aren’t healing because you keep making more.
You keep making more because it’s easier than stopping. If I hate myself, do I mean something? More pain. More fires. My dad’s absence becomes a dagger that I plunge into myself anytime I feel like I’ve forgotten the sound of his voice. He’s a slogan. A hym. A chant. A prayer I recite to protect myself from ever trusting someone again. He let me down before I ever learned to love. Was it worth it to spread my arms open and be wrapped in his emptiness? To be heartbroken, if only to feel loved for a minute.
I find myself afraid of your softness and passion. Because if you worship me, I have something to lose. Losing you wouldn’t just bruise but break me. That’s why I have pushed you away. But you still kiss me like a storm. Thunderstorms make me think of your lips. How they make noise. How they salivate. How they grip me like they’re trying to outrun their own chemistry. You hug me and I melt. For a moment. A single second. I’m not thinking about what I need to worry about next. I’m still bruised, but I don’t feel broken.
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Bella Melardi is a poet and author. She writes about the political and personal. She attends OCADU
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