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I pressed the dress to my nose, and found what was left of your ghost. It was then that I remembered how to cry.

Stephanie Briar

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In my dreams we got past the parking lot; you took me past the old, oak door, led me up onto the vacant altar, and offered me to every god whose name you invoked as you worshipped my body.
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How do you sleep soundly, knowing you traded roses for weeds?
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“Ashes”, we once thought, but the embers in our eyes might have bought us time.
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When I was a child, I used to fear monsters under the bed. I have since learned that most monsters are found within. And they are always worth fighting.
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Do I look as good as I remember, Looking back at you from over my shoulder, smug as the devil?
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As if flesh and skin and hands are any match for bullets. As if bones won’t crack in hails of powder and lead. As if rivers of blood are not the direct result of trigger fingers that bend but do not break on “bad days”.
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You could not keep me fed by throwing me bones and empty promises. I am ashamed to admit how much starving I did before I finally left.
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It quietly stops my breath to realize that my greatest grand gesture, my last, best act of love was to let you go.
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The pain of your memory is sharp enough to be felt the nails raked along my back by somebody else.
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I was looking for you in all the places our love used to be. When all along I should have been looking for me.
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Can hope bloom in the shade? Can time give back what it takes away? I once saw the answers to life in your eyes; now I can remember the words to goodbye.
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