The Haunting Vacation House

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 18, 2018

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Submitted: August 18, 2018



I remember the Monday/ you decided you didn’t need me./ The Monday that made you realize/ you didn’t want me./ The Monday you put the magnifying glass to our relationship./You said you were just trying to look closer,/ but just like any sadistic kid,/ you hoped the glass would catch the sunlight./You wanted to watch us burn. 

The space/ between your words/ reminds me too much of the emptiness/ you left/ in my heart/ when you decided your love needed a vacation./A spring break from my affection./ A walk on the beach of men/ each a grain of sand/ wanting to stick to your body./ Your body only partially covered by the vibrant two piece of/ insecurity & trust issues./ Tanning in the light of maybes/ sun rays like "maybe I don't want a relationship"/ or "maybe I'm not in love"/ start seeping into your skin/ and you begin to hope you get a tan./ You dip your toes in the ocean of possibilities/ without me/ without us/ and find the water cold/ refreshing/ you decide you want to swim. 

But just like all vacations, you came back./ You came home. 

While you were away/ this home was tearing itself down/ trying to rebuild itself into a house you'd want to live in./ The kind of house you want/ to raise children in. 

Now you're back/ I'm afraid you bought a vacation house. 

And its not that I hate him./ But I do hate him./ I hate what he symbolizes./ I hate that his hands held/ your hope in them./ That his lips spoke/ your escape into existence./ That his height mirrors the fact/ that your eyes were set on a life above me./ He means your absence./ He means my absence./ He means your acceptance of my absence./ He is the face of my heart break/ because he is the face of the life/ you could have had/ and at one point, truly wanted./ So maybe you don't want him/ anymore/ but on days when I'm not easy to love,/ you'll think back to what he means/ and you'll consider it. 

And that’s why I get a panic attack/ every Sunday night./ My stomach hardens like concrete./ My chest tightens/ as if my lungs are twin towers/ that collapse onto my heart./ My trembling hands hold/ my knee caps and wait for/ the earthquake inside me to stop./ My jaw swings open/ like the screen door someone forgot to shut./ My throat is the front door/ to my heart/ and its sealed shut with too many/ deadbolts with missing keys,/ so I don't make a sound./ I am swallowed up/ by my own silence,/ forced to watch/ Sunday set/ and Monday rise again.

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