how to eat your own flesh

i keep waiting to feel it, but it never comes.

i keep waiting for it to hurt, but it never does.

you pack up your things in makeshift boxes, jumbled hurriedly in haphazard piles. she's waiting by the door, keys in hand.

you ask me if this is mine, or if that is yours, and how would i like to split those. i respond like an automaton, hollow and hardwired for monosyllable.

and i think about the day you moved in, the day we drank cheap boxed wine and started painting the walls lime-green. and we gave up, laughing, so you played grand theft auto while i slept in your lap. it was 20 degrees outside, but we stayed so warm. we ordered thai food and i wore that blue dress, but the paint was still drying when you pushed me up against the wall and slid your hands up my legs. and that dress was ruined but we were still drunk and and everything was okay. that night, we slept on the living room floor and you whispered i'm gonna love you until the day i die.

you are dead now, and so am i.  she waits for you, red lipstick and tight jeans.  and i wonder with no real curiosity if you will love her too. if you will make her a home in your arms, if you will put a ring on her finger. she steals guilty glances at me while you pack the last box of clothes. she says i'm sorry and i know that she isn't but none of it matters and i barely hear the sound of your keys dropping against the kitchen table for the very last time.

years ago i would have wrecked these walls with blood spray and holes in the shape of my fists.  years ago i would have lined up ten shot farewells to chase down the memory of you.  that bitter fucking pill.

but now it is november, and texas has never been quite this cold.  i'm alone in the living room, staring at that half-painted wall.  and i am waiting for the wound that isn't there, the heartbreak that never comes.

untouchable, unbruised.

i wouldn't change this if i could.