Cardstock

I made a mistake, thought of you today.

That cardstock corpse covered in paper mache

lodged in a recessed crack in my head,

once growing, now pale, rigid, and dead.

Tried to swallow all the phantom pain.

Tried to erase all our photos again,

but the what ifs won’t just go away.

That’s all I had and that’s all that’s left,

I don’t know why I thought you’d stay,

don’t know why I thought I could be direct

when I’ve never said anything I needed to say.

And I’ve never played anything other than pacifist,

pathetic, too scared to think what might have been

in anything more than the future tense.

I’m self-conscious, narcissistic, maybe sadistic,

because like paper, your corpse moves my story along.

I’m obnoxious, twisted, daily masochistic.

I refuse to deny it’s my fault you’re gone.

It’s my fault you felt you had to end it.

I kept pushing nothing but false promises,

kept pushing the agenda of a compulsive addict.

A fragile rose.

A violent flood.

A curious soul.

Out for blood.

Didn’t I know I’d never be enough?

Hadn’t I seen it often enough?

Always chasing the divine rush

with all the rose petals I crushed.

It could never be what it never was.

Too much.

Too fast.

That rush.

Don’t ask.

Don’t go there.

Take it back.

All the crying.

All our past.

Neverending.

Never lasts.