Where the Breaking Matters
by Kristy Webster
Don’t worry, I promise it will happen again.
A man shaped like your own heart will walk through the door of your flesh and destroy you.
Until then, eat the foods you like. Drill holes in your walls to hang your favorite pictures.
Call your father, or don’t. It depends on your damage. And his.
Today, take a long bath and count your lovers.
Remember how you tried. Remember why you failed.
Let your children eat cake for dinner. Just this once.
Ask yourself: What flavor is this alone-ness?
Does it taste like waiting? Or like healing?
If it be the latter, hold onto it longer than you like.
This type of alone calls for a pillar of cold, escalating patience.
Nighttime is an aching wound, I know this.
You haven’t felt the weight of another body in years and it shows:
In the sponginess of your outer layer,
the dark nets encircling your heavy-lidded eyes,
the bee-stung nature of your verbiage.
You’re not being punished and you haven’t been forgotten.
Remember when you brought home a kitten to soothe your love ache?
You named him Romeo to mock your own wavy appetite.
He turns six in August, and your mending is a private, soft spoken religion.
One day a white hot arm will reach inside of you, your lungs will pump
an invisible armor but in the end you will gladly suffocate,
you will smile inside the grip of lust and matter,
you will suffer for symbiosis, deserting the quietude and isolation
that brought you peace and resilience.
It will happen again, you will be blissfully shattered,
complicit to your own beautiful ruin.