The following piece was sent in. I am in awe at the talent of each of you. This is a story, it is a poem, it is truth. Much love and peace, enjoy:
“All of my angstiest poems were written when I couldn’t sleep, and I’ve felt loneliest laying next to someone else, sleeping.
This is called Pattern of Scars
I look up at her bedroom ceiling
–stare at its many holes.
When she sleeps, the lights go out,
and the shadows that cast up
make the holes widen, deepen,
when my eyes begin adjusting to the dark.
They spiral and turn inward
vast empty spaces–
hollow, like her words.
I reach up, my fingers aching
–aching to be inside them,
to ruin their cyclical spiraling,
to tear them down.
she rolls over next to me in bed,
stirring only long enough
to bathe the room with light
and to turn her back to me again.
She sleeps next to me, yet I am alone
–alone to hold myself, rock myself to sleep.
Alone to see the ceiling in full light.
Alone to stare at her naked back
and its many holes.
The holes lengthen and redden
when my eyes adjust to the truth.
Daggers have spiraled, stabbed inward
leaving deep, thick scars
–scars at once bleeding, like my heart.
Scars that should have nothing to do with me
since I did not place them there.
I did not place scars on anyone but myself.
I reach out, aching to be inside of her,
but she smacks my hands away
time and again
(because of the knives).
She knows nothing of the scars,
but she remembers the pain
and it has changed her.
I get up to go,
because I simply cannot stay,
and I catch my reflection in a mirror.
I turn my back to it
and look over my shoulder.
The glass shows me that,
on my own back,
the same pattern of scars is forming.
I look back at her one last time
and she is awake, sitting up in bed, watching me.
I blow her a kiss,
and a tear rolls down her cheek.
Turning away, walking out,
she does nothing to try and stop me.”