The aftermath is a house made of ice
Where you can see in, but I can’t get out.
I stay in the middle of rooms.
I sleep on the rug.
I don’t bother beating the walls any more.
My hands blister on the frozen blocks.
The aftermath is a rose made of blood
Which I wear on my jacket every day.
The copper scent sickens me.
I try to put my identity there.
My hands come away guilty.
Bloodied, full of shame.
The aftermath is a bed made of wire
On which I have said goodnight to sleep.
Rest is a balancing act.
I turn until the wire binds me.
I try to take my lover’s hand.
My fingers catch on the barbs.
The aftermath is a tree made of fire
Where my words flutter but cannot perch.
My tears can’t put this fire out.
My lips seal with the heat.
The tree drops curses of fire on the earth.
My words wither and turn to ash.
The aftermath is a breath made of ash
On which I choke and struggle to swallow.
The ashes fill my stomach.
I gasp and gasp until the dust fills me.
My words become grey and lifeless,
Bloated and washed of colour.
The aftermath is a love made of rage
In which I burn and burn again.
My desire sickens me.
I reach for my lover in the dark
Then turn away, closing in on myself,
An ammonite in its shell.
The aftermath is a life made of pain
In which I have learned to take what’s there.
The scales never balance.
I exist in the moment.
My comfort comes when it will.
I resist, resist, resist.