you told me not to burn my bridges

tell me about how
you pulled bodies from the lake:
faces thinly veiled
by a sheet of oblivion,
eyes clouded over
with the image of lost desires,
clothes floating in the still water

tell me about how
you dried each one,
took them into your home and
sat by the fire to warm the
ever-present chill in their bones
their hair dried and their hands warmed,
but their blank stares remained

tell me about how
you surround yourself with corpses of your past:
your drowned dog, your last boyfriend,
your dead father
immersed in memories, you remain
trapped in time, every passing day more difficult
terrified of forgetting, you remain

trees grow and flowers bloom,
but only when they fall to the ground
and begin to rot
do you see them

Published in Edition 2 of The Dilettante.

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