pillowface | sinking in | a poem making sense

I’ve painted a dead face on paper

the face that comes to me at night

arresting sleep, arresting peace

the bones that crack at a sister’s lips

the bruises that will always keep their colour

the dried blood that will never heal

I remember the face beneath the conclusion wounds

the face I’ve seen in fights

the face I’ve seen hurt

the face that made me laugh

I drain the life out of that dead face

it is the absence of life that haunts me

the letting go

the lack of choice

it’s too late, it’s done

that face takes itself to bed with me

and I need to acknowledge it

this is a fact

this is the truth

and I’m still breathing

even if it hurts

and life comes back

his into mine

the face finds peace every night

and I hold it there

the horror

and accept it

because it was a choice

a choice by someone I love

a choice one can only make in a microcosm

in deepest intimacy with oneself and something higher

something within, at the heart of everything,

that belongs solely to oneself

and nobody will ever know

until it blasts out into the invisible world

in a million particles of gold

Photo by Giovanni Calia on Pexels.com

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