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Gray Spots MAG
I am learning to appreciate gray space:
not every moment is definitive,
not every person the killer or the cadaver.
Sometimes, there is no
villain in the story; we are
people, trying our hardest to make sense
of a universe intensifying and romanticizing
I am not in love or in hate;
apathy and obsession don’t exist exclusively.
I go back to photos of you, tucked
and smile fondly. I feel the wet ache of betrayal
thrum in puckered wrists, but I
am not seeking out revenge. I’m not seeking out
your hand again, either, though. I’m just
I used to let your words command my day.
I love you meant a soft smile, curled at the edges,
a full stomach and shaking fingers, a girl
who let affection drip into her heart
through a pinhole.
I was a happy summer red, clumsy feet trying
to follow your dance.
When you told me
you make me sick my heart stuttered
gooey words bleeding bubblegum pink
out of my veins.
I wanted to stop existing. I tried to stop, but
they brought me back, and I woke up
to an empty hospital:
I woke up to gray spots.
I cried hot thick sick girl tears, snot dripping down my face:
I loved him, I loved him, I HATE HIM,
WHY DID HE LEAVE ME, come home
but I’m all dried up nowadays.
I do not hate you. I do not love you.
Sometimes, when I’m watching television,
I turn to tell you a joke,
or I rest my head against the subway bar
and yearn for your hands on my hips.
I miss you, certainly, but I’m yellow and clean and growing every day; no longer
are you midnight black or cotton white. You
exist in short bursts when I come and visit the gray.