It’s a shame, the woman that will come to the door of your heart after me.
She will come with a dust pan and a broom, ready to sweep all the pieces of me you left laying on the floor. She will come with bleach, in the hopes of washing out all the stains I left on your soul. She will try to wash your eyes so you can finally see her, but she will hear my name so often, it will slit her writs. She will try to kiss you, but all she’ll taste is my name, still lingering on the hems of your mouth. Your tongue will still taste like my favorite water melon lip gloss. She will wash your sheets, trying to get the smell of me off them. she will burn your shirts, because of the traces of lipstick I left on them.
It’s a real shame, because you will smoother her in her sleep, with memory foam pillows filled memories of me. You will call out for me while in your deepest sleep. And she will try to hit you over the head with a baseball bat. So that her miracle comes in the form of amnesia.
But I pity the woman, that will knock on your door after I leave. She will shed her skin for you to use a doormat, she will rip herself open, thread by thread to knit you a sweater and keep you warm, from your own cold heart.
She will hear stories about me, You will tell her stories of how you made me laugh, how you made my skin glow, but you will also tell her how I might have been too much to love,how I was too quiet to keep around, how you loved to play with fire, but I had a paper body. She will hear how I collapsed into myself.
How I refused to hold words like broken glass in my mouth, then she will hear my stories about you, laid out in metaphors immortalized in poems. Stories about how you drank, how you lied, how you kissed unfulfilled promises into my mouth, and expected me to be quiet.
She will wander(as I often do) what makes you, a monster, so damn lovable because all you do is grasp, all you do is take, she will find my shoes at the door and walk in them, then she will understand why I left.
She will pick my glasses up on the kitchen counter,and see through my lens how you have a heart like Judas. She will find my watch, on the bookshelf, and she will see how you will consume her time,the hours will tick away,and no darling, the watch isn’t broken, he is. She will see her hairs turn grey. She’ll pick up my iPod. Listen to all the songs you promised would be life,she will hear whispers of lies seep through the cracks you call a mouth, she will listen,to all the music I did. Music that will tear open her skin. And to the woman that will come after I leave.
Being kissed doesn’t means you are loved, ask Jesus about Judas.