fluorescent lights

and the mornings after

---

No one tells you about the mornings after

When your body wakes up still expecting him



Or that nights are the hardest



The warmth of his body

The weight of his hands

Desire pressing into your spine

A calloused reminder that he’ll devour you given the chance



His hunger, unwavering



The smell of his soap

A song

A word



No one tells you about it



That tightness behind the ribs

A shallow breath that burns in the corners of your eyes



The curve of his nose

The crookedness of his teeth

The lips that hung heavy from underneath him



No one tells you about the crack in the glasses

The jagged little edges



Sharp and covered in roses



Fleeting moments that grow hot in your cheeks

In between your thighs

Erasing the silence where he would leave you shrinking

To pick up the pieces



Again

And again

And again

And again

And



The broken mirror

Tiptoeing around the glass



No one tells you about the someone new

Heart meeting chest

New hands touching the same places

Pressing into blacks and blues

Greens and yellows



The fluorescent lights



Catching your breath running back into his arms that won’t open

The taste of copper in your mouth from biting down too hard

Your nose, broken from the door being slammed

The ache of remaining to be wanted by him



Your bruised and begging knees and the weight of standing



Or the weight of collapsing

Because this one promised to catch you

---

I haven’t written poetry in a really long time, and it felt really good to. Poetry usually finds its way out of me when everything weighs a bit more. I wanted to capture the little bits and pieces that slip through the cracks when you’re going through a breakup.

Like the way that breakups sit in your body. The regulating of your nervous system in the aftermath. One breath deep enough can be enough for your chest to concave on a random Tuesday morning.

Fleeting memories that will make their way to the forefront of your mind with something small to trigger it, like a word or a scent. Thinking back on memories that you made better than they were, the lens you wear afterward.

That when you look back on old photos you’re unable to recognize yourself, or the way that you start to forget the details of their face over time.

That you’ll miss being touched, the weight of them.

More notably, the sinking in your chest when old wounds are pressed on. That you’ll still want them to want you long after the end. The feeling of aching to run back to the false safety of their arms because exposing yourself to someone new knocks the breath out of you.

And discovering the you that was lost again.

Dear reader, if you find yourself here, you aren’t alone.

With love,
Stephanie