each and every december, revisited

your heart is the room that scares me more

another kind of hurt encased in weathered years

i don’t know how to mourn the man you can’t

and won’t

and didn’t



(but maybe can and will and did,

because that’s always the irony,

isn’t it?);

it doesn’t help to say he changed–

scars don’t heal like that.


you look at me like i’ve lost my mind when I say

i feel at home here

i fall to the floor

my eyes pointed up at the ceiling,

crisscrossed with a cheap attempt

to cover up the past.

i would cry except the thought of

you staring up at that other ceiling

low and dark and dangerous

holds back my tears.


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