I've been talking with giants again. Forever-forgetful creatures, they relive the best parts of those years and miss the rest. Lying in the grooves of their palms, eating glossy memories out of their hands, I laugh until my chest aches. The giants and I, we only recognize love when it leaves a bruise.
They're wondering where you've been, where your footprints begin and the poem ends. When I remind them you grow elsewhere now, they can only point at our roots.
Forgetful creatures, they ask me where you are. I tell them that maybe I grow elsewhere now, too. They still don't like the words I write, always rearranging the story until you're something worth reaching for. I must admit that I sometimes favor their endings, even if I cannot write them down. Even if they hurt.
Lately, I've been sleeping in the comfort of their shadows, their lullabies a familiar, stinging song. As my eyes dull, they whisper your name. Still, I talk with giants, even if they like to forget. Even if they hurt.
YOU ARE READING
HEAVENLY CORRUPTION
PoetryThe ramblings of a woman who spent too much time in confession and too little time trying to figure out what exactly she was apologizing for.
