Cw: implied intimate partner violence, allusion
I think you thought it was me who had a tendency to flit around. Maybe you were too polite at the time to say it. Sometimes I see it in my writing. My entire flittiness. Is that a word? Is that of consequence? Prescriptive linguistics are a bore & offensive.
See how I flit?
You did it too though. Didn’t you? I never got a chance to say that your light switch 0 & 1 reaction to my multi-dimensions wasn’t exactly grounded. Was it?
Like a live
Perhaps the most poignant indicator of it all: the refusal of acknowledgement.
I’m a poet because I hate lying & I want to leave impressions more than I want to offer any fixed answers.
But I say victim-blaming in plain language, because we need to say it more just like that.
The funny thing is…you do know.
& that’s what hurts the most.
That someone who should know better, hurt me more than almost anyone else.
Didn’t you care that you were my comrade?
Didn’t you care that threats are not love?
I’m not selfish for knowing that. For being clear about any of it…clear when I was also the most confused.
I write these letters to you. Unsent letters to you.
Not because I think you’ll listen to psychic logic. No.
But so I can believe myself.
So that I can actually believe myself.
I do more now.
You dropped me carelessy while looking away & pretending not to.
Is that not a flit of all flits? Was I not responding to it?
Thrown by the wayside. Me by you.
I managed to swim.
Back into my own watery disillusioned self again. My lost body.
You took from me: illusionment.
Is that a word? In this day & age that should be of no consequence.
I’m still swimming to here in what seems like perpetuity.
At that time, my words for you were shaky. Like I was. In such physical precarity, I wrote from the heart. For you.
Comrade, that you betrayed what we had, it kills me to this day. Not that that means anything to you.
As spring arrives, anticipating blossoming, I remember our future as it left us because our beginning began too soon.
Everyone hates an I told you so. Maybe less so when it’s a note to self.
I’m less shaky nowadays.
After the night of me, the afternoon of me, the morning of me collapsed into myself, somehow my flutter finally returned.
My silvery wings of sheer mettle. Renewed radiating energy; on an eventual return to reality, the unreality of we; the spell, finally leaving me.
© Niliema Karkhanis
Featured image by Paweł Czerwiński from Unsplash