• Erin Grace Thomson


I don’t remember if I ever used a word to explain this one—

the fury—listen to me—she is not me,

even when she latches herself onto my eyes and tongue—

even when my body collapses into torment,

You see, I can’t remember if I ever made a picture out of pain,

but I suppose I have made many.

Once it rises from the grave I dug for it, it

latches and I cower at its resistance to die—

So I submit—I don’t know what happens—

when it leaves, all I can do is force a wail and

I could never love fury in the way she desired—

Only for small increments of time,

A prolonged affair would surely sire a disease,

I don’t remember the last time I loved anything more than memories—

And I have made many. Listen,

If my eyes could explain my nightmare like it explains my sorrow—

no one would doubt me, or maybe they would?

I cursed fury for festering old wounds, but were they old if they still caused me such anguish?

I don’t remember the last time I had control over this archetype.

She is not me but she is as close to me as a lover,

How do I become her?

I don’t remember who I am in those moments—

I don’t remember—but I remember all of her broken promises.

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