Would you believe me if I told you that,
Of all the places I’ve visited,
My own skin scarred out of the rough edges of
a long gone love interest
Is the one I fear the most and end up
running into?
For you, Love might be sitting in a shady street
where two lovers once danced
to the secrets they shared in brief conversations
But it looks like a stranger to me;
who strikes up a conversation at 10 am something
with phrases spaced between lingering eye contacts 
and entwined fingers with frozen knuckles.
On our fourth meeting, he shoots himself 
while our laughter hangs in the thin air between us;
I watch him.
Counting seconds.
Counting seconds-
while they fail to catch up with my heart beat.
Counting seconds-
while a scream hit and bounce inside my head 
five hundred and fifty five times per count.
Inappropriate to be called a nightmare, 
that dead man still sits on a rocking chair
at the blind spot behind my eyes
and his cries cut through my afternoon naps, 
shredding the cozy blanket into bits.
Like bare branches resisting themselves from breaking off to snow,
I try to act easy, when he crawls and lands
on the same page
where I see you.
Souvenirs of a broken engagement,
And pride wearing a one point five inch heels
Stare back at me as I
Count the crevices on the ceiling
And listen to the growls inside my tummy.
Do you understand the struggle?
No, I’m not looking for kind words–
They often tend to take a seat on the merry-go-round inside my head
and trace a speed curve that only goes up
as I paint broken parodies of cliches 
on ‘how-broken-I-am’ on your face.
You say you can shelter the love you have for a flower
by not plucking it,
But would you be able to save one from withering away?
From disappearing like it has never existed?
As to bloom in love is out of the question, 
for I feed on deformed memories;
dying a slow death, 
one petal at a time.