For you

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,

again.

 

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,

without you.

 

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,

for you.

 

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.

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