Thursday


We have shared millions of Thursday's together
but I can't seem to remember one specifically. 
I think in flashbacks rather than coherent words or thoughts.—
“The thought of you in my veins replaces blood for electricity”—
“Our love was worth it; I just felt worthless” —
I am writing my last poem about you right now, on
Thursday.



 When I wrote all the things that I wished I had said instead
in our 20 minute conversation, I didn't mean
“Come back, I miss you,”
or “I have tried to convince my fingers that are reaching for you
that it isn't the time for games,
I try to convince my hand that misses
how I cupped your heart as if I were holding a secret that it was just a fantasy,
I try to convince my arm that is used to being over your shoulders that
now it can sway independently.” Or “Do not say goodbye,
do not say bye. Bye?”



I wrote this poem when I saw you outside and you stared at me,
but I continued to look forward because I knew if I looked at
your chocolate eyes I would mistake glances for hands and I would unravel all the layers of protection I had built up for myself since last March.
What I really meant was
do not come back even if I miss you. My fingers still run all over bed sheets hoping it will feel the same as your skin but it does not and now I am a cliche. Tell me goodbye,
call me foolishly in love with the person I broke up with,
call me indecisive for the third time, scream at me,
then all I will remember
is scrunched up eyebrows and clenched hands, not the kisses imprinted on each other's lips on every street corner we have had adventures,
but I need to hear that goodbye.



When I wrote,
“You are the handbook of how not to love
the rattling lungs
of a mermaid out of water,” I meant it.
You didn't know how to love someone who had slit wrists but I cannot blame you.
I never told you why I used to cut
and why I broke up with you constantly.
When I couldn't find the answer I would leave and I’m sorry I have a habit of
leaving things unfinished and raw
when they are bound to work out in the end.




But when you wrote
“I am scared if I love you too much, you will leave me again,”
you were right since I did leave
because I figured I was too unlovable to stay.
Now we do not glance at each other,

now my skin is cold but that is exactly how armor feels.

Text by Natalia Mercedes Rodriguez & Visuals by Teresa Woodcock

3 comments

  1. wow this is an amazing collaboration
    natalia, you have a way with words and teresa's art is so stunning
    in love w this

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    Replies
    1. πŸ’–πŸ’–πŸ’– thank you so much. She truly does have a way with words! :)

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