Less Now

I have written my heartbreak
so many times that your name has worn thin
beneath my fingers. Its letters hardly show
their faces on the keyboard now.
I am tired of carrying you
with me everywhere I go, but I am afraid
to let my wounds heal. I do not want to forget
what made them. I find comfort
in turning scabs into scars,
and I am festering.

You brought me to my knees
and I thanked you for it. I am small
and stupid in your wake. And after marking off
days and weeks and months on my calendar
without you here, I feel my joints aching to buckle
again. What a shame. And I had only just
pulled myself to my feet,
and begun to walk.

I suppose it will take time
to unlearn the lessons you taught me
about myself, but I have never cared much
for waiting. I would rather peel the skin
from my hands, burn your fingerprints
off my shoulders, rake my frame
over hot coals to counteract
your cool indifference.

I would rather rip you out of me
like an overgrown splinter
than spend another night writing your name
across the inside of my eyelids.
It has marked me like a curse.
I cannot look into a mirror anymore
without seeing the things you loved
and hated. The collar bone you kissed,
the legs you pushed, the lips
you craved. It is all my fault.

The skin around my gut has swollen,
pregnant with regret and hungry questions.
I do not understand why our hands
fit together. I do not understand how
we fell into such frenzied happiness.
I do not understand where I lost
my presence of mind, my sense of self.

I was not much before I met you,
but I am less now.