by Alizée Chesnoy
I am the one fingers wrapped around the door handle,
Pulling it shut.
The surgical removal of the threads
Binding us, hip to wrist.
The clean incision.
The quiet goodbye.
Thinking maybe this will scar well,
The fading of a bruise.
First, do no harm.
Who the fuck am I kidding?
I am the one with the closed door and yet I
Miss you like I am broken.
All the reasons for leaving humming deep in my bones but the
Gut-clenching wetness that yearns for you still.
To call you mine. Even though you never were.
Even though I never wanted you to be.
There is nothing neat in bleeding,
In carving hollows that still bear your fingerprints.
The sucker-punch of stitches pulled apart, the
Sound of your voice, the bruises under your eyes,
The way you move, the way you catch the sun,
The way you held me until I slipped between your fingers.
I lost the right to you and my body
Doesn’t know that yet.
I am the scalpel and the bruise.
I am terrified I am not the only one with healing to do.
Everything that smells of cigarettes
Smells of you.
Alizée is a poet in Paris. When she isn’t writing, you’ll probably find her photographing street art, practicing sarcasm, and drinking unhealthy amounts of tea.