I always think it’s going to hit at night
when my mind wanders
and the soothing glow and twisted wires
of Christmas lights around my window
remind me of the fading light in his eyes
and his mess of curly hair.
But sometimes it hits on a Thursday morning
while I put on my makeup,
and the red of my lipstick
reminds me of the lines on his wrists,
and I don’t know what to do
with the black mascara running down my cheeks.
So I just stand there wishing he knew
that when he got quieter
and his music got louder
and his smile got fainter
and his socks got taller
and his sleeves got longer
and bloodier
and he thought nobody noticed
or maybe that he wasn’t worth the trouble
to make anyone notice
that he was wrong.
As my red smears of lips
and black mascara drips
stare back at me in the mirror,
I just wish he knew
that he was always worth it,
and that anything that made him think differently
never was.