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You’re preserved inside of me; cadaversque. I both acquiesce and atrophy because of it.

Stephanie Briar

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Myself Preserve

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Our story bleeds from my eyes until I cannot tell the stars from streetlights.
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How do you sleep soundly, knowing you traded roses for weeds?
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The search for external sources is nothing compared to internal forces.
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Let yourself go a little wild, a little rough around through the edges; the human spirit wasn’t meant for carefully-curated perfection.
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If we are what we love, Then I am whatever you are made of.
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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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Stop accepting abstract noun love. Real love is always action verb.
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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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Our memories lurch to a reluctant halt in their funeral march, so I can pour salt over them one last time.
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I am strong. My heart still hopes. My mind still dreams. My soul still craves pouring energy into everything that I love.
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The stars are where we came from. They orchestrated our return to the place we can always come home: our ancient, timeless love.
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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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He’ll keep some daying and tommorwing until he has no tomorrows left. I don’t choose that.
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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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Standing in your power scares a lot of people. You become something formidable, intimating, and aspirational all at once.
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You’re preserved inside of me; cadaversque. I both acquiesce and atrophy because of it.
STEPHANIE BRIAR

Myself Preserve

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