Vanishing Act
I count the times I disappeared
beneath your hand.
Now you see her.
Now you don't.
Now you see flesh
and a pocket knife.
I count the times we played vanishing act,
and I fell through a trapdoor
out of my body, leaving an empty shell.
I have become a rag doll sewn together
from scar tissue and turmoil.
I have become a stain on your carpet
that won't scrub out:
so unwanted,
fully aware,
yet still unwilling to leave.
I count the times I fell out of your reach
and you did not come after me.
I count the times you fell out of mine
and I fell down with you.
I open then close my eyes
again and again,
an audience in awe.
Now you see him,
Now you don't.
It's April Fools Day. And
you are on the other side of the country,
boasting as someone who no longer loves me.
It's April Fools Day, and I
am waiting for the punchline
YOU ARE READING
Moments Belonging to No One: A National Poetry Month Chapbook
PoetryApril is National Poetry Month, and I have decided, in honor of the month, to write 30 poems for each of the 30 days. A lot happened in my life throughout this month. Mostly what I wrote about was heartache, breakups, exhaustion, and the way life mo...
