The end of a relationship is not like breaking apart. It is closing a wound.

Not picking at scabs but, pulling at stitches.

Stitches from the physical removal of I from us.


I am in postoperative care.


I still don’t refer to us in past tense. Not without forcing it out.

The words start as a lump in my throat and are pushed out by my yearning to respond to treatment.


I am in rehabilitation.


Learning to regain my independent motor functions.

Discovering how to stand on my own.

I know not every piece of you was taken out.

You were the one who could make me laugh the most and make me smile for no reason.

You taught me to love without restraint.

But the pieces left behind are benign now and, the memories are fading.

The photographs are of strangers.

Our relationship was pretend and it’s ending is fictitious.

I may not look strong when I’m filled with tubes are wires.

When I’m held down by reminiscent machines and emotions monitors.


I may not look strong but, I am RECOVERING.




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