Love lives far longer than the death of the girl.
The memory in the cells you took, you gave, stay
stained, but moving in your body,
a homeless part of yourself that wanders in your veins,
like an epileptic cat that spins and recovers on your floor
full of piss and drool, a vulnerable,
deadly seraph that’s forgotten its god.
Yes, she lives but she doesn’t remember you.
You can only watch as she floats by, lips unconsciously
mouthing your name and caressing the flower petals
you’ve thrown her that pass through her fingers.
Follow her and you find the nettle too thick,
turn into thorns and take your blood.
But this blood dripping from your legs,
your arms is where she lives.
Eggs that hatch and feed from the inside,
grow, mate, and release more eggs
until you are so bloated with love
you can’t keep yourself from birthing
a song, poem, dance, blog post.
Maybe you shave your head or find a lover in a bar,
maybe you throw stones,
to distract yourself from the killing-contractions.
But she lives in you, love, still,
then out. Then out love.