by Anna Myers
It comes in waves, bright and harsh and just out of reach.
Every time a little closer but never quite enough.
Here’s what you’re missing, it seems to say; here’s what you gave up, vanished westward into smoke but stayed closer than you realized
push it aside
but know it’s never the last time.
It feels good to linger until it doesn’t.
I trace the days and months and years backwards until I find it and press down like a thumb on a bruise,
purple and swollen and mine mine mine
all mine to keep secret.
Words I was born to speak pressing at my teeth, pushing for release, saying you’re not fooling anyone and least of all yourself. Words I keep safe in their locket waiting for a better time, for a not-so-secret life.
It comes in waves, on nights like these but sometimes when I least expect it.
It’s in the lies I tell strangers with practiced ease, in the shot to the heart when a friend says just the right thing. It’s an itch to scratch and sweet bliss come passing, heart ringing with remorse and hearing gone static.
A handful of moments I wish I could change,
but I was carried
Anna Myers is an actress/writer/clumsy person navigating life in London. Her work has been published on Thought Catalog, Poets Unlimited, Soul Anatomy and She Did What She Wanted. She laughs really loudly and cries to a lot of John Mayer songs, but if that doesn’t scare you off, she’s always up for a chat on twitter and you can read more from her at www.annamyers.co.uk.