Gina Clingan

I can still see the image of you dancing
down those no-longer-familiar halls.

The Doomsday Clock
is set at 10 seconds to midnight,
and all I can think about
is how I’m running out of time
to tell you all of the things
I never got to say.

Paint the walls a pretty color, considering you will probably find yourself staring at them a lot more over the next several weeks.

My closet is full, but my bed is empty; a result of choices, regret, and time.

Loyalty is painting your own face so you can follow them into the circus just to make sure that they don’t lose themselves. Loyalty is reminding them that this is not home and the paint does come off.

I remember how thankful I was that you were no longer the one I was writing poetry for.

“I don’t see why you are doing all of this for them, they wouldn’t do the same for you.”

The fights feel like a relief, because you finally have an excuse to run away from them; to avoid them.

You collect verses of my poetry
and attempt to
reconstruct them
until you can convince yourself
that you have always been
my muse.

It’s really gross,
the people I find myself writing about
at 2:30 in the morning
when I can’t sleep.

When it feels like you can no longer hold yourself or anything around you together, I need you to know that it’s okay to just let go.

I wish I knew your story. I can tell you were well-loved. Maybe that’s what draws me here.