Unlearning

I lay on his chest

and I want to cry.


His hand stroking

my hair, his thumb on my

cheek, overwhelmed with 

the burden of love.


I keep my eyes closed,

lashes tickling my skin,

out of fear the safest place

I am coming to know

is only as solid as the

crumbling

city of Rome.


I lay on his chest

praying I will not come

undone before him.


Thick vines of green wound

their way around my body,

holding me utterly still

against every voice

telling me to run. 


His breaths my guide

for the ones I

struggle to take.


I manage to voice out my fear, 

a question I think

I would rather know now.


“Is this real?”


In the silence between, it is 

easy to imagine

a world in which 

I deserve nothing.


He does not exist for me.


I can walk away 

I tell myself

if I need to.

Over and over,

as if I can fool myself

enough into thinking

I have not already fallen.


As if I can pretend

natures bindings haven’t tightened,

rooting me further still

to the fate it has created for me

and me alone.


Bruises appear purple

with every sabotaging thought,

every instinct that begs me to 

leave this in ruins.


I am no lover and

Rome will be jealous.

My destruction has greater

beauty. I have dealt 

with broken hearts before.


My breath catches when he finally speaks,

unbelieving I am worthy 

of feeling such a way

and not being able to breathe

all over again.


“Yes.”


His entire being pulls me into now,

away from an unhealed fantasy

I must learn not to crave.


I am a lover

and Rome is jealous

of me.





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