By: Katie Johantges
You were weeping when I found you.
You were tucked beneath steelstained clouds and
opaque water, expecting
something to be done about the condition
in which you were.
Ivory flowers floated atop dim puddles:
held up by atmosphere no longer.
from the sky,
around your cold, colorless body,
but you weren't dead.
Your fingers, which seemed so strong when they glided across my cheeks
in the summer mornings,
bruised and bleeding,
were a tiny mural of dark shades.
I was okay with being alone again.
Furiously raw guitar sounds
from nextdoor’s windows were
stirring that part of me that wanted
to be drunk on
expensive wine or cheap whiskey
and become infatuated with everything.
You had tucked into your pocket a
wrinkled list of people you had hurt,
and my name was on it,
though I didn’t remember you causing me pain.
You could have been kinder to my
I tore the list into one hundred jagged pieces and set you free.