play, pause, replay

open wound

Phoebe wrote a little note on the train

on her way back home. Waves and scribbles 

of glittered greens on the back of 

an old receipt from Mrs. Bill's restaurant.

Her old cashmere still bore the massive

stain of blueberry jam she brought

from Greyson's house last Thursday.

I hovered over the page attempting

to see what she was writing.

"You disappeared," was the only thing

I could read before she crumbled the

paper in a ball and shoved it inside her bag.

Phoebe always told me that poets are sexy.

I knew that was more than just another joke;

She had quite a thing for Atlas. Perhaps, more

than just a thing—a swelling attraction, maybe.

Was that what she was writing about? Atlas?

I found them kissing in the kitchen a month ago:

his hands up in her hair and her slender legs 

around his torso; gross, I almost projectile vomited.

And in the blink of an eye, a kiss killed everything.

Almost as if, you can't remember the person  

whom you kissed the hell out of last night.

And everybody was gone as if being slowly

stripped of her clogged life: Atlas, Greyson,

Jame, Daisy—everyone.

Phoebe had this thing of having a thing for

those I used to have more than a thing for.

As though, if I'd fuck a random guy today,

two months later, she'd be shoving her tongue

down his throat. Good thing, I didn't care.

Even better I never cared to know it was him.

Phoebe never liked growing up, graceless.

She wanted to be the liquid gold flowing 

down the bruised skin of Aphrodite.

Too bad, she flowed down an open wound.

You didn't see me in the crowd, she wrote.

I was still standing in one corner, with another

packet of Chesterfields, staring at the back of

your head. I was still growing up (or down),

but you were too busy to look down and care.

And then, you disappeared. 

The black and white shadows were

falling apart in the sun;

everybody was fucking gone.

I shudder.

Why did I have to grow up?

Phoebe died a week ago.

I think I cried a little.

But more than that, I just sat and stared.

Just like that. Rip off the bandaid 

and lay your scars bare in the sun.

I wished it was painless; good 

thing, it wasn't pain this time.