Why I’m Moving

Ah, yes.
Here is the sign that wore your mark.
I painted over it long ago.
No good.
I can’t forget.

Here is the roof that I climbed on top of
Late one summer night.
You begged me not to do it.
Said you couldn’t get arrested
Again.

Here is the window to the bedroom where I said that I missed fucking you
When you came back,
And we did not know it was the last time.
I do not miss fucking you
Anymore.

(I have a new bed now.
One that you have never been
Inside.)

Here is the house where she, your best friend, left me a parting gift.
A gallery of garbage.
A sprawl of broken furniture.
A string of urgent messages,
Unread.

Here is the dumpster where I tossed her unsent headshots.
Black and white, soft focus.
Taken many years ago.
They live on in the landfill.
And in my mind’s eye.

Here is the bar where I drank myself back to life
After.
I don’t go there anymore.
I was not an addict
Before.

(When I would say, drink in hand,
“I am an alcoholic,”
They would laugh.
When I say,
“I am twenty-four days sober,”
They cough and glance away.)

And this.
This is the house where I have felt uncomfortable in my own skin.
I have been molting.
I just didn’t realize it
Until now.

When you all left this city,
I said I would reclaim it.
Easier said than done.
Easier said.

Sometimes it is safer just to leave
Than to rebuild.

2 thoughts on “Why I’m Moving

  1. I was already listening to sad music and I read this twice. This poem, it isn’t funny. It belongs on a website with a tagline about getting stuck. I like the mystery of the rest of the story, and that it ends with some hope.

    Liked by 1 person

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