by Maia Huddleston
a consumerist bullshit holiday, tied
with a ribbon blurred the line between
christmas trees and fireworks
between dinner rolls and stuffed turkey. i know
we’re not wealthy
the card i wrote you last year with the
envelope still sealed
your name written neatly across
the front in bleeding blue ink still sits
behind the window pane
and falls off during spring cleaning.
my enthusiasm: my dog-like loyalty wrapped
in a hallmark card and thrown aside
in a thirty minute conversation where you
expect to make this about politics
something broke when you refused to
apologize and i said sorry over and
over again
i crawl back to you like a filthy mutt every
damn time like you give me
anything to live for i feel nothing
when i look at you so i walk down
six flights of stairs to eat alone
in a room full of people because i
can’t stand to be by myself much longer
and i stay at the cafe
until closing time waiting
for a prince charming before i walk back
upstairs and think it’s okay to cry
it’s okay to forget
how to process it and my legs turn inside out
so i stuff my head into
the skin opposite my elbow and find
a home there
if my mind
would run in a straight line for more
than just a second i think i might be able
to tumble backward and catch up with the girl
who trusted everyone, walked down everystreet with her cashin hand just waiting to be.i turn off all the lightswait for the sirens outside to swallow mewhole and pray for the ravens to stop singing