Gia Raquel

I’m staring at the acrylic paint attaching itself to my nails. I’m angry at you.

And it’s not because I’m dirty. I’m not dirty. It just won’t come off.

My head is pounding for the second time today. You would take three Ibuprofen, I would take two Tylenol.

I only took one today. Maybe that’s why it still hurts.

How can I tell you I’m angry at you, so that you’ll hear me? So that maybe you’ll feel the thumping, like I do now.

I’ve been staring at a screen all day because the radio won’t talk.

The paint is peeling from my canvases, and frankly, I’m starting to understand the fear of solitude.

I’ve lost myself to the nights, recalling days to your patient ears.

I’ve lost myself to you. To the being that helped me grip love and confirm the brutal reality of age and cynicism.

I don’t pride myself in holding in tears anymore.

Maybe that’s why my head still hurts.

I’m refusing to let go of your favorite t-shirt, of the scent of your soap. I’m refusing to stop looking at photographs, listening to voicemails you left.

I’m still trying to figure out who invited you in, and how you didn’t even close the door on your way out.