PARTS

 

“how can i be reasonable? to me our love was everything and you were my whole life. it is not very pleasant to realize that to you it was only an episode.”

— william somerset maugham

 

---

 

i want to build a paper statue of myself,

and then tear it all apart.

an embarrassing effigy,

a shameful simulacrum,

a revolting representation of misguided attention and love gone wrong.

—

first, i will start with my skull,

fragile and bony, harboring all the memories of you…

every single solitary moment that you spent with me,

etching your image further into my frontal lobes, my neurons going ballistic at the thought of your perfect face.

every time you touched me,

softly imprinting my skin with the signature stamp of your fingertips,

like a teacher grading his favorite A-student’s paper.

every time you spoke,

enchanting my eardrums to commit your tone to memory.

every single time that our worlds collided,

sometimes resulting in a glorious revolution,

sometimes resulting in an apocalypse.

i will take it and wrench it open;

i want to leave it void of those memories.

it will be empty of your touches and words and thoughts and actions,

no matter how much my frail, tattered self screams that she still needs them for a rainy day.

my paper head is torn and battered.

—

next, i will move to my neck and shoulders.

here, i will scratch and scrape them to shreds.

my shoulders will be in shambles and my neck will be nothing but light, white, lined scraps.

this way, they will never recall the feel of your arms around them,

your oversized sweatshirt grazing their skin.

or your full lips,

curling as you smiled against the crook of my neck,

occasionally whispering rushed words and hushed kisses.

—

following that, i will continue to my arms, now dangling from my marred form.

i will split them in pieces,

destroying each one like an unsatisfied artist defacing his rejected work.

firstly, my cold, pointed hands,

which you gingerly grasped and kissed while i was distraught.

secondly, my tender, bruised forearms,

which you clutched to steady me when i panicked,

now littered with gashes and pale scars.

thirdly (and lastly), my soft upper arm,

which your bony knuckles punched as we jovially teased each other.

—

i will then move to my chest and stomach,

lying flat against the solemn setting.

i'll break open my chest,

savagely prying out my foolish, naïve heart that fell into your game.

my stomach is next, scarred by your warm touch,

which was like the feel of a space heater against your back on a winter morning.

i will watch the bits and pieces float away as i sense everything rushing back to my mind,

making me scramble to make sense of it.

remember the day we rolled on the dewy grass of the playground, tickling each other,

pretending this could be anything but mistaken?

or the one where we rode your sister’s old scooter down the pavement,

the sidewalk not taking kindly to your adorable stumbling.

—

finally, tiring of the thought of you,

which, unsurprisingly, managed to bring nothing other than mournful memories and sorrow,

chock-full of “what if’s” and “if only’s,”

i make my way to my legs and feet.

these legs are the same stocky structures that supported me as i leaned against you for photos,

the same chubby chopsticks that placed themselves in your denim lap on those rickety, rusted swings.

these feet are the same stubs that carried me along the path between my house and yours endless times.

i hate them.

they resonate within me as objects that only ever existed with you in mind.

they now amount to nothing but mounds of paper scraps and shredded memories.

− m. jarnot

PARTS II

 

“high romanticism shows you nature in all its harsh

and lovely metamorphoses. flood, fire and quake fling us

back to the primal struggle for survival and reveal our gross

dependency on mammoth, still mysterious forces.”

— camille paglia

 

---

 

you helped me assemble myself

piece by piece,

moment by moment,

every painstaking memory by painstaking memory.

—

you didn’t just glue my frail, thin self back together, dear,

you rebuilt it from the ground up.

you touched my heart in ways no one has ever even bothered to.

you touched my skin in a way that felt like snow,

gently grazing against someone’s cheek on a cold day.

it was soothing.

it was calm.

you put the storm inside of me to rest;

you were the eye of my hurricane.

—

initially, life became sepia,

regaining warm brown hues after being stuck in black and white for so long.

then, you transformed me to a technicolor masterpiece,

like a child’s first finger painting.

i know it sounds cliche.

i know that no one can truly touch my soul.

i know i am unequivocally, absolutely,

entirely, alone in this universe.

but our  infinite lonelinesses combined

make for a very beautiful, solemn scene.

—

life is like a lone, empty hole we fill.

we stuff it to the brim with memories, experiences,

and wondrous love.

—

you shine similarly to diamonds,

though your outside seems bulletproof,

like a rich mineral being tested in a laboratory,

you refuse to break.

you keep me strong.

you make me feel big in such a small world.

i feel nearly invincible now that you’re beside me.

—

you didn’t even need a blueprint.

you’re the perfect freehand engineer my heart needed.

i love it.

you gingerly reassembled my body,

similar to the way a sculptor molds his famous statues,

making me feel more like a masterpiece than i ever have.

—

you helped me realize that i,

i can be lovely, too.

i can be poetic and artistic.

i can be smart and witty.

i can be pretty and admirable.

and i damn sure am worthy of love

and attention

and devotion

and someone who will stay not because they have to,

but because they want to.

because i can be compelling and mysterious.

i can be worthy

i can be.

because of you.

— m.jarnot

FIVE THINGS NO ONE EVER MENTIONS

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5:00 A.M.

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SHE/HER

 

I cradled my cup of coffee to my chest as I watched you kiss her.

All I hope is that she gives you the same chills she gave me,

running up and down our spines like favorite poetry.

I hope you grow to understand that she is poetry herself,

and her curves and imperfections should become your favorite lines and stanzas.

I hope she still dips her tongue the same shy, adorable way when she kisses.
I hope she still has her same nervous ticks,

like curling her fingers through her hair.

I hope her heart is still as soft and pure as the day she left.

Because those pieces of her are what make her the most beautiful.

Her broken fingernails she swears are too dirty and split ends she’s been too lazy to cut out are intricate and gorgeously rich.

And that is what you must treasure the most.
Fill her empty soul and mend her broken heart.
Make her whole again,

because I sure didn’t.

Remember that she is art.

To be studied,

To be analyzed,

To be learned,
To be appreciated,
To be adored,
To be loved.

Loved.

I can only hope you love her more than I did.

SMOKE & RAZORS

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