by Elena Dickson

No one knows the pain that came with this compliance– 

They did not hear the nights I spent screaming, 

banging on broken glass, 

ripping my clothes, 

tearing the paper that defined me. 

If I had to sit in the wreckage of my past—

I would be sitting atop a mountain of broken CDs and torn movie posters. 

Bottles would be littered across near perfect report cards 

and beneath it all 

would lay a woman who raised me 

to throw fists 

instead of bowing my head 

and accepting the love I am handed. 

What happens when I am no longer special—

when the gift wrap has been torn off

and my ideas seem dull underneath the morning sun? 

I can’t stop shining myself for you, 

I can still reflect light onto you. 

I can do whatever trick you ask of me. 

I will bend in any direction,

I won’t say a single word,

I want to be special for you. 

Please let me be special for you.

Sometimes I sit up at night and drown myself in the basin of my own tears. 

You left my body like a demon— 

I can still feel the priests hands as he felt the scratches along my soul, 

the carvings left on my walls. 

I am still shaking from the home you made inside me. 

The hole beneath my heart can’t close and 

you are the one who can stitch it up. 

I know you had to leave, 

But this pain feels like a new hell. 

I get new tattoos when I'm sad. 

there’s something about the permanence of the ink on my skin 

that reminds me I won't always feel as alone as I do. 

my artists know me by name

and say hi to me on the street. 

my arms are lined with new designs 

and art that will never be displayed in a museum. 

i’m not sure if your name was poked into me with a needle 

or was made of pen ink—

staining my skin but never meant to stay. 

You leave when you are ready. 

You will pack your bags, neatly folding every shirt and pair of underwear— 

maybe even packing extra for the road. 

What you won’t be ready for is the phantom limb, 

the stolen glances in hallways.

The detachment hurts more than the severance. 

Sometimes, amputees have an itch on the skin that no longer exists. 

It burns and burns for hours on end. 

When I sit up at night, 

counting sheep that will never be there,

I can’t help but imagine your limbs entangled in mine, 

so close we cannot tell who is who.

You never feel ready, 

but you are.  

Being with you made me look in the mirror more. I no longer shied away from my reflection. I fed my soul and nourished my body. Loving myself seemed easier, less daunting, less taxing. You made me feel lovable then told me you can’t love me. 

I don’t know what to feel without you next to me. 

I had my first date after you. 

We sat in an ice cream shop

surrounded by valentine’s day hearts 

and friends laughing among themselves. 

We talked about our hometowns, 

our families, 

our friends. 

We talked for a few hours—

and then went home. 

We did not kiss, 

I couldn’t read her like I could you. 

The whole time I kept imagining she was you. 

When will that stop? 

My teacher told me my love is transformative, 

that I see good and strength in others 

when they cannot seem to find it within themselves. 

I cannot disagree with him. 

I have taught ex boyfriends how to love themselves 

and convinced ex girlfriends they could create a family. 

I’ve left hookups knowing I will never return, 

but they will compare my kiss to every other that grazes their lips. 

I create love in hopes that someone will recycle it. 

My carbon footprint is waning towards zero, 

and I do not know what will happen when it hits nothing. 

When will some recycle their love into me? 

I am one person past you. 

I still don’t know what I should be feeling 

as my hand grazes her hip

and my lips touch hers. 

I enjoy her fingertips as they trace my skin 

but I can’t help but sit with you in the back of my mind. 

What would you have to say? 

Would you be ashamed I enjoy the touch of someone new? 

Would you be hurt if I lay in the same bed with a new body where yours once was?

The withdrawal was worse than any doctor could warn me of, 

but I am not sure I want it to end. 

When I look into their eyes

I see a mirror reflecting back into mine. 

I use my reflection to craft myself into what they want to see— 

I become the person they want me to be. 

But as I looked into yours, 

I could not find the sunlit reflection that blinded me upon first glance. 

Instead

I saw your eyes,

the color of mulberry branches

with leaves just shining through; 

and you saw mine, 

endless fields of green with bluebells scattered through the middle. 

As you sat in my fields, 

I reached for your berries and you made a bouquet with my flowers. 

With every bite, I heard bells ring in the wind. 

You told me you couldn’t hear a thing, 

that I should continue to eat the berries, 

that you wanted to stay in my hollow forever. 

So we stayed in the sun 

until our cheeks were freckled and blistered 

and I could no longer find myself in the mirror of their eyes.