She stormed down the dusk-lit corridor
In the dead centre of my chest,
Tearing down all of the film posters from the walls,
The journals and sketchbooks lining the shelves,
The framed photos,
Then incinerated it all at my feet,
But a blistering ache on my charred soles
And an infinite number of heart-sized holes
Along the insides of my caged arteries.
She told me not to hold onto the memories
Because they will eventually forget me.
It is better to get it over with yourself,
I wrote this in fits and starts and while drifting off to sleep….