I am in a constant state

of

indecision.

The left side of the scale

tilts towards

justice, the

other towards

love.

How do I always end up

in the same place?

The vertices of the map connecting

into a single point,

like lungs circling a heart.

The cemetery,

the pink kitchen.

A sense of ownership

as we stare down

at

the grave we

made together.

We did this as a unit, you see—

we sliced and cut and throttled

until our souls were buried

as one,

and we own it, raise

it like a child,

a scar inflamed.

A fire is set.

We watch as

an orange flame  

crawls up my

white lace curtains,

A pile of

ashes

at our feet.

I want to put them

on your

forehead,

a sacred mark,

so you can

feel

what it is like

to no longer have

a body to call

your own.

It’s like a religion, see,

you give yourself away

until there’s nothing left.

Barren and empty.

I throw a stone at

a clock on the wall,

I peel an apple

with a butter knife.

I am

learning to

be less

merciful.

 

Kelley Kilgore is from Spartanburg, South Carolina. She has forty-eight lipsticks on her desk and her closet is perpetually overflowing. She eats way too much mac & cheese and always forgets her password.