I sleep, for you.
I lay in bed in hopes to be reunited with the past,
I wait for sleep to start feeling like your arms in order to fall,
I breathe, for you.
My lungs inhale the hope that you etched into my skin like a bad tattoo.
I exhale the happiness that I thought I could cultivate, sow, and tend to,
I eat, for you.
With every bite I take, I hold on tight to my ribs, hoping to feel them expand the way you wish they would.
I swallow, and I hold on tighter like a corset, hoping that I feel my body change,
I dress, for you.
Your favorite dress on me, was the one I loathed the most. I wish I could rip it off my body, and shred it with the sheer strength of my hatred.
You had loved that dress—you tore it apart instead.
I walk, for you.
With every heel-toe step I take, I meditate on how my foot hits the ground. You were right across from me, and suddenly I was 2 years old again. I forgot how to walk.
You have paralyzed me.
You now wheel me around in a chair, and I am forever in your debt.
I live, for you.
What does it mean to live, to you?
I count each beauty spot on my golden skin, and I can see a constellation of stars—you are the black hole that sucks me into your soul, only to be forgotten.
That is what it means to live, to you.