Bloody poem for a too short story.
There’s been nine weeks since you left, away from me. And I question myself If it was the smoke of my menthol cigarettes that made you go numb and blurred your vision because I don’t think I’ve ever seen you looking at me with those empty eyes. You said it was only for a little while, and I believed you, because I love you, but now I regret every second of that afternoon when I left you go. I know it’s selfish, but when I say that I need you I’m saying it with all the truth that I have in me.
I feel nausea, paranoia, panic, hallucinations; or at least that’s the way I think I should feel when you are not here, because you have a piece of me inside you.
Maybe I just don’t know what I’m made of, how many pieces of me stay here when you are away, but one thing I’m certain of is that, no matter what, I’ll never leave you.
I’ll never leave you because you are buried so deep into my skin so walking away from you would be like taking off all the bones in my body one by one with my own naked hands. And I would beg you to stay and help me redo all that bloody mess.
I’ll never leave you because that would mean tearing off the roots of the tree we grew together and destroying all that wonderful flowers that burst off of our kisses.
Leaving you would mean ripping open my chest in half and pulling my heart off, warm and yet beating.
And I will not laugh like Charles Bukowski did when love broke his bones, because real life isn’t so poetic.
Although in the end everything will be on your hands, I hope you miss me, because you were always able to see the mote in your brother’s eye and not the rafter in your own.
If you definitely decide to stay away remember, that I’ve written about you so many times, that even if you leave, you’ll never die.
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