Post-postmodern

Jilt

We did everything together. We’d lay cat-paw quiet as the rain swept tall grass that tawnied the burn. We rocked in train-wind then shuffled to our seats. You didn’t really know me then, not like I knew you— I don’t recall exactly how we got tangled up together. I remember needing a place to stay and you taking me in and giving me shelter— we listened to Stranger Song with the curtains drawn, your hair a soft black nest.

When we turned 35 I felt I needed a change, I wanted more room. I began to insinuate myself into your thoughts, blur lines, shallow out a stair. I fanned like a hush through your blood. When you first got sick you brushed me off, lost yourself in The Wire then 6 Feet Under, and when the headaches got to be too high-pitched to hear, you sought professional help.

I showed up for your MRI. I tried to be funny. I grow on people you know— but you didn’t see it like that, your eyes welled and broke, your jaw muscles rippling, clouds lightening themselves in sheets outside, the lump in your throat come undone. You.

I won’t let you cut me out of your life— I’m under your skin, I’ll cleave, bone-deep, seeped into your core. You’ll die too, killing me.