It must have been a mistake
All I did was revisit old threads
Scroll through old messages
Well, to be honest, I searched out your name
I just wanted to know if you unblocked me
I got my answer,
I am still dead to you.
I even read the last message I sent to you. .
Then I went to Instagram and scrolled through your pictures.
The still painful reminder that our memories have been erased.
It’s a death I know too well
But a death I refuse to accept.
I was telling someone about you the other day.
How do they do it? To have love in her bossom and mine. And to just decide a death. A death that doesn’t kill neither love. How do they do it?
It was scary because I added that
I know she still loves me and I love her still.
Except, it didn’t feel pathetic. It felt human. Or at least, I did. I am okay even if it’s a delusion that even though you never carried my baby. You carried my love and nurtured it like your child.
You were a mother to love
A mother of love
A mother, loved.
Yet, you chose death.
You chose to mortify,
You treated our memories
As heirs to your new love
And you gave them the medieval treatment
No blood with a claim sniffs life.
Except I wasn’t Blood.
We merely shared memories.
I saw that one picture at the cabin.
The one where you celebrated me
But truly I was secondary to your bestie
Who happened to share my birthdate.
I don’t know how I feel about it.
You kept those images
But they remind me now,
That even when you loved me.
I was merely a scented candle.
You lit me for the pictures
To turn out visible
You lit me to provide drama
To the stability of your sisterhood.
Well, I have finally changed your name.
My phone will no longer remember you as your dad’s daughter
But as your lover’s wife.
It felt clear. It felt right. It felt strange.
I have no more sorrow. I am like a grieving widow who is out of tears, biologically.
I leave with a whisper:
My love, never dies. It does decay.