*This is a piece from an ongoing poetry series by Cecilia Ruvinsky*
Seventeen iron kisses on my thighs,
and each one stings like peppermint toothpaste when I walk.
One month,
and the headache of him remains.
My mother is confused,
because she can’t see what I’m staring at on the wall,
and to be honest,
I can’t either now.
When she says my name,
the fairies and the phantoms
that made my eyes perfect glazed donuts disappear,
and the close-to-death bird in my throat
hums out an apathetic “yes?”
because she has forgotten her song,
and I have forgotten what must have been a beautiful piece of art
on that now comparably bland turquoise wall.
The highlight of my life
is now broccoli cheddar soup,
and I whimper and ask for the sunflower scarecrows
that wave at me from my window
to save me please –
kill me please –
but they only gaze upon me with pity
and turn their attention to the west.
They need the sun,
and I am anything but.
One month,
and the headache of him remains.