Deaths of Former Selves

The spirals painted on the ceiling have been peeling since I’ve lived here,
Shedding memories I had buried deep in the flowerbed of my subconscious,
Those memories now shimmer and electrify, threatening to re-consume,
And drag me by the hair, back into the girl who used to inhabit me.

I miss her terribly, she had a special way of mourning for days at a time.
When she said something was beautiful she meant it with all her being.
But her manic neurosis had obliterated all the happiness within her,
The world never looked any better than a swatch of coral grey after a rainstorm.

Magnolias now flower where I had buried her, wafting pelts of sweetness into the air.
I wonder sometimes if the footsteps of passers-by echo down to her ears,
Shaking the locks I had used to shut her into the coffin. I could no longer open it.
I had tied the key to a rock and drowned it in a river because you had told me to.

This war has no victim’s, only strings of afterthoughts that sting my eyes.
I am blinded to the fish hooks at the corners of my mouth that force a smile,
And oblivious to the small talk that spews out of my mouth like a fragmented valve.
This happiness is forced, but the price of truth had too high a cost. And I was losing.