I gasp, my hands flying to my torso,
Pushing and grasping, expecting the pain,
The blood of an open, weeping wound
But the pain doesn’t come,
And I pull my hands away to find them unblooded; pristine.
I probe for the gaping wound I should have,
But touch only scar tissue.
I don’t understand.
There should be a hole.
A bullet, a bolt from a bow, something.
Your absence was supposed to tear me;
Rip me open to spill my blood and tears across the calendar.
But I cannot mourn for what I didn’t have,
For what was already gone;
Your body lived, but the you I loved . . .
She died and left me—us—years ago.
Only her trappings remained behind,
A decaying shell to haunt the living.
So now that the rest of you is gone,
The last shard is removed;
So the torn flesh closes,
The bleeding stops,
The pain withers,
And I can breathe.
Thus with death are we both rendered whole.
I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.