fiction – Can't Not Write

A Book Falls

A book falls, I fall.

The proper thing to do is to pick it up, dust it off and hold it close to your heart.
Not me, not this time.

Although I haven’t climbed these stairs in years
they always sound the same
under my feet,
creak and splinter,
in the same spots.

Is it possible to split this heart in two and give away the pieces?

They are sharp, jagged.
Not equal,
not perfect halves.

Relax
here’s a small pond

The water feels like needles pricking every inch of me
but never strong enough to rip me open

I never kept track of our kisses.
I can’t remember which one
was the last.

The pain is not a secret.
Although I throw scarred leather
over these bones,
the angles of my heart still rip through paper

I screamed
at the top of my lungs,
but in my head,
no one heard.

I bled in a glass jar
and she threw it against the bridge
just for the sake
of watching the sky
go up in smoke.

I had to move on for the sake of me
despite the aching blow.
Rip apart this identity to flee,

outcast for needing to go.

You jumped over my heart to get to the moon,
during this leap you slipped.
I asked, how long?
you answered, soon,
to my heart so bruised and flipped.

I wanted to leave, but my body wouldn’t let me.
The strength to stand wasn’t there, and I feared to die in this house of hallways.