I celebrate the times when
I forgot to think about him.
I relish in the absence of his ghost.
For once,
The thoughtlessness is a tragic liberation,
A victory over several hours of
Inadvertent deliverance.
When I remember how
I love him
I celebrate the time when I don't.
He is but a memory.
Similar to the tattoos on my skin
Hidden away from
A judging gaze,
But burned and scarred into my soul.
He has branded my mind
With this abusive affection.
Though this temporary distraction
Is appealing and vital,
I find myself missing him
And upset that I have allowed
Myself to slip away from the devotion
He has demanded.
Absorb him, he says.
All of him.
Except the part he has reserved
For another.
Clear instructions that I have
Deliberately avoided
For the sake of my soul.
But passion reigns supreme
And I torment myself
By pulling hairs for my skin
And gluing them back when
The hour glass has emptied
Its last grain of sand.
God granted me the serenity
To relinquish my power
And stopped plucking myself
From myself to give him
Disheveled pieces of my bleeding blackness
So when the time passes
I declare a victory in spite of
His pulling and tugging
On the veins and tissues
In the night.
I am forlorn and free.
