AN ESCAPIST'S REPRESSED DESIRE | poetry

faulty memories

now, it is but a yellow bruise.

dewy petrichor, the rustle of malachite grass
and the stains on muddy white shoes are gone.
the wind no longer mutters his name
with the same urgency and sworn secrecy;
our delicate flower chains have withered
into dry, crackling ashes;
the presence of the once yellow yolk in the sky
-which had burst
open into carnelians and honeys-
lingers only in the aching, purple bruise
that i see in the corners of my sight.

he is not what i remember him to be,
nor is the city i used to call mine.
and even as i walk past
the grey buildings and lifeless streets,
he-the lively boy who carries
a fragment of my heart in his-
and i used to aimlessly wonder,
unfamiliarity strikes me in unfaltering waves
until i am covered in blotches of rotting blue.

green bruises and red scratches will heal
even if my knees stay littered with scars.
i pray i stop thinking about him
for every second of my nightly seclusion.
perhaps, in time, the tattooed sight of him
will fade from my mind
and my memories will fail me
and i will be in blissfully innocent peace.