I remember you.
Cutting you from my back was the most freeing experience I’d ever had.
And the way it felt when the burden of your body left, like sinking into bed after a long day,
Never noticing that my spine flinched at contact with the mattress.
My friend told me that when the doctors had to amputate her leg,
The first thing they told her was that she was likely to ache a little
In the empty space where it used to be,
reactid=”.cy.1:5:1:$comment456452321196629_456828781158983:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$text18:0″>Likely to attempt to move it out of habit.
Likely to notice the ghost of it with its nails in her thigh.
For a year after I amputated you,
I spent my days thinking about the end of the muscles on my back, flat against the skin there.
Even though my bridge of vertebrae in full view lets me know, you’re gone,
Leaving my body was something you did only physically…
You weighed twice as much as I did, when it came to the hate in your heart.
Only I knew that, and you didn’t want me to tell anyone else
Until the day I rid myself of you.
Then, my body was an empty house, freshly exorcised.
Hiding in it the ghosts of ghosts of ghosts.
Edges and corners cloaked in the dark, like your words.
Rogue tingles branching, tearing out of my shoulder blades like wings.
Even when there were none!
Image Source: flickr.com