Sad Stories at a Funeral

Beneath the shed skin of our dream
I meditate until the words
“It was his fault, after all” rise and fall
Like the slowing breath of what
Was once us. These internalized pain points,
The places where we’ve been torn and
Exes have poked their fingers into like
The wall you keep around your heart or
The way I refuse to compromise for fear
Of being subsumed by something I never
Really believed in in the first place.
I have never danced around the words I
Wanted to say but distrust your meaning
And wonder if it’s just a projection of hope
Or if it’s insight into the depths of
Modern masculinity, the way in which men
Never really say what they mean but say it
So bluntly that there’s no doubt of what
The truth is. I suppose we exist
Somewhere between these truths and lies,
These sonnets and neuroses, the bitter
And the sweet, little mornings before the
Sun rises when your breath is still and
I don’t think, I just love and forget
The questions.

Author: Erica V.

Always seriously joking and rambunctiously soft-spoken.

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