melisma

i have heard that every woman
is either ophelia or the queen,
either too much or not enough,
either drowning or swimming, either
dying from grief of living with guilt.

but i have run past enough finish
lines in my life to know that sometimes
you give up and sometimes you keep
going until your legs hurt and your
lungs bleed.  

what i mean is that i used to forget
that there once was
a version of me that did not
know the twelve shades of blue in
your eyes or what words to use
to describe them.

what i mean is that i still catch myself
thinking about that time i saw
you singing in your kitchen with your
hair down, dancing around to the radio
in a shirt i thought i had lost months ago.

what i mean is that i’ve started
ignoring you in the hallways
because it’s less painful than looking
at you and not knowing what
to say—

our problem was always that we
had too much water, too many novels
written in the backs of our mouths,
too many bones for our skin, too many
hands clasped in prayer at cathedrals
that were never ours.

we were never going to be able to swim.
one of us was always going to drown.
one of us was always going to keep remembering.
maybe both of them are me.

maybe i have a throne and a crown
and nothing inside of me but oceans,
oceans and rue and song and
faded satisfaction that comes
with the knowledge that once,
you loved me. once, you thought
our souls were made of the same material,
once we wore our hearts on our
sleeves and read each other like
poems we had helped write.

sometimes, i think i smell smoke,
and i imagine you are burning everything
that reminds you of me out of your life.
maybe the smoke makes your eyes
water. maybe it isn’t the smoke.