How to Mend a Broken Heart

Build a room first.

Not a shrine. We won’t call it that until someone dies. It doesn’t have to be you.

Remember that when the blue-black carpet is a grave waiting to be dug with silver shovels of your nails. Remember that when your mouth-mirror is a broken in infinites of seven. When the verbs written on the walls are scrawled in mud. That headstone is just a bust. Not even names are craved in stone.

I wanted to be your prairie vole, but I just didn’t have it in me. I’m all teeth and claws, grabble and scrabble. I dig holes for a living. For a loving. If you really think about it, veins are just tunnels to the sweetest morsels. I won’t resist their sugarsweet. It’s my fault I’m a good rat. Find my way in and out of the maze before you even said go.

Besides, you offered.

Here are the things I stole away from you:

Two garter belts, size forever, unworn
A dog with eyes the color of last night’s sky
Your inability to tell the truth
The way ribbons are cut cross-wise
Te busqué

I’ve gathered them for you. Not in boxes. In the flat of my hand. Place them around as you need to. Burn them. Lick them to savor the flavor of forgetting.

It’s time to build that room now. That beautiful shrine.



Image taken with iphone at Cloud City Coffee
Words written at Cloud City Coffee
Brain on this museum, where I want to go.
on Birds & Arrows

This entry was published on January 5, 2012 at 2:48 pm and is filed under Fiction, January, Seattle, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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