Tortuously,
I keep looking for something
that isn't there
right now, at least-
I feel strongly
compulsive. I still seek signs
first thing in the morning
like that one unforgettable
affair
uncovered by footprint,
a betrayal disguised
as an innocent amble
an estrangement you
desired irrisitably
and unregrettably.
Now that I have seen
deleted texts sent and received
more than dirty fingerprints,
this is DNA,
a wound
Spring inside the rib cage
re-tearing old wounds
the clicking like rage
in my ear
and I see how naturally
this discovery
reveals a new PTSD
in me-
a bomb exploded
my heart imploded
screams held back
my blood ran out
but I stayed, trembling at times
to face the enemy
closest-
when he
finally turns around
and notices me-
clutching a lit grenade
with the same gripping fear
that has kept me here
holding on
for too long.
Painting by John Collier (1850-1934), ;The fallen idol; c. 1913 in Public domain.
