between yellowing bruises and ribs made of porcelain, cracked by all the words i hold captive in my lungs, between a heavy heart and an empty chest, which fills itself from time to time with the tiny details my arms blindly reach for in the blankness of my mind, i soak my injuries in memories of us, fragments cluttered beneath my feet, piled haphazardly in chronological order from start to finish from birth to death. i’ve stepped over them for so long, so long, trying to keep guard of the pensive prison i created while loneliness creeps with ill intentions behind my eyes.
“time heals all wounds” but do all wounds heal time?
so i paint my bedroom walls with fear, i fluff my pillow stuffed with denial and i sleep soundly on my bed, dressed in sheets of 300-count delusion.
because between memories pregnant laughter and barren promises, i still love you.