Let Go.

Remembering you, is like placing my lips
on a heavy bottomed whiskey glass, filled
with tiny sharp shards of a broken mirror
and tilting it into my mouth. Slicing my tongue,
the same tongue that licked the blood from your lips
when you fell into my glass desk.
Tearing at my throat, with a familiar burn,
that comes only from crying so hard that the
salted grief becomes more acidic with
each clear recollection of
just how
fucked up
you
are.
The mirror catches the light, like you did,
but it makes me keel over; internal bleeding
and a searing pain, also familiar. Your calling card.
You found me when I was just a young girl,
and you added an unforgettable misery
to my world.
Your creation was my slow deterioration.
Your masterpiece was the physical
damage that would grab at me with it’s clammy hands
still, fifteen years later.
I applaud you.
You made me into what you are. I am alive. I survived.
Remorseless and unflinching.
Capable of cruelty with an unnerving Mona Lisa charm.
I learned it, from you.
You would be proud of me today.
If you knew.
But you will never know.
You will never get to gloat or replay the
video you didnt know I found.
While you lay on the ground, bound,
looking at me
questioningly, and
understandably confused.
You thought I was dead.
Do you believe in Karma now, asshole?
No. Nor do I.
You have to BE Karma.
You taught me that too.
How’d that work out for you?
Cat got your tongue?
If you’re happy and you know it,
Stay very very still.