He sits in the crook of summer. We eat raw meat. He possesses me.
I am a possession. I am loved the only way a ghost knows:
whimpers in the night, sheets over dead souls, the windmills
in the background going round and round.
I am loved as an object. Kept near and dear, but also never fully realized.
A lot can happen in a month: no one wants to hear that story though,
because the truth is love never dies a natural death.*
My grandmother told my mom on her deathbed,
“At least I had 30 years without that bastard.”
I am not the same.
*Quote by Anais Nin