Loves Me Not
Poetry
I don’t expect the pain to evaporate into the ether or the stratosphere, to become entangled in a fragile web of scribbled ink,
or the shrapnel and baggage we all carry, euthanized by painkillers daily dwindling, feeling almost like poetry
that soothes the creases of the soul. I’ve upped the dosage and now I hide the monster, a stranger within me, a fire with no flame,
a grey house with no door,
a lock with no key
and I burn so deep and so long, because the fool in me
laments that love has gone. I’m numb and the moonlight passes through me like ghosts of past lovers who once shared some silken threads but now
the stars conspire to cradle me as their own. What makes us scarred and beautiful?
What makes us able to leap into love again?
© Connie Song 2024. All Rights Reserved.
