Nourshing the Void

He reads the words like a jigsaw puzzle. Pieces of the girl to assemble. Cure that broken image of itself.

In a kaleidoscope of grunts each folding into the next. We got stoned on each other. So many times until sober was a novelty again.

He used to give me books. The pocket-sized kind that sell optimism from spinning wire racks right next to the prefab reading glasses. The ones where every page is an upside down frown, but hardly a smile. A compendium of the little lies we tells ourselves every day just to get to the next one. I don't know, but I think he wanted to save me to prove to himself that anything could be salvaged.

I look at him there. All those moments of ours sunken into digestion. Experiences as tangible as food. Moving through us. From mouth to stomach to intestine. The slow process of consumption turning every love into shit.

He's still there fidgeting with those crumbs. The empty plate wailing as he grabs at the leftovers with a rigid fork. He Brailles my heart in bits and pieces. Desperate to know what my blind is.

I don't know, but I think it's hard doing the saving. Much harder than being saved.

I don't know, but I think it was easier being broken.