your voice
like it had a right
to slip in through the airwaves
your voice on my voicemail
like yesterday wasn’t last year
and the months of tears
were only something to pass time
like I shouldn’t have donated my sanity
to a nondeductible charity that sounded like you
like I never should have walked to the edge
of that nightmare ledge to give you a little shove
like I should give up on anger
because today my name showed up
dressed in your voice
Purging you
I sliced my left wrist
and watched
the tilt of your head
the caress of your voice
strong hands and soft lips
watched all of you
spill over my skin
for a moment
even held your dark eyes
in the cup of my hand
before you trickled
to the tile floor
another lonely mess
another solitary cleanup
Jean Brasseur is a writer living in Northern Virginia. She is of the belief that poets and artists are grossly undercompensated while other professionals such as politicians really ought to work for free. In the meantime her work can be found in various publications online and in print such as gutter eloquence, right hand pointing and flutter.
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