We let old stories illuminate the dark room,
some so worn in with our years of retelling
that we fill in the gaps where the record skips
with our own exaggerated details.
I prayed for you, I almost whisper. You kiss my knuckles between fits of laughter.
Between embarrassing tales
of drunken nights and youthful attempts
at fitting in, you mention my old wants at being
a writer. The poetry, the many notebooks.
I fall asleep nestled in the hollowness
of the future I made for myself.
You press your lips to my temple.
I was such a lonely child, you know, I almost whisper. I used to believe it was something a person outgrew. It's funny, the things you sacrifice to fill the night.
[one day, I'll be brave enough / to shiver and recognize the cold / I will know how to distinguish warmer horizons from a gentle winter / I will fly]
eve's note: I'm probably oversharing, I know, but this happened in my personal life recently, and I'm still processing it all. It broke my heart. It truly, truly broke me.
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.
