Prose Poetry: The Woods

I am done. I have to be done now. I can still feel the cold, twig-laden dirt of the campground pressed against my back, the scores in my skin hold the memory captive. I think I remember dreaming as I lay there in the dark, alone and un-alone. There was a fire, and I am the one who held the match. I came crashing back down into the darkness, after. Once the house was only ash and the screaming had died into silence. I remember someone crying but maybe I made it up. Maybe it was just an animal trying to trick me. Maybe my eyes were open but I was still dreaming, still being tortured by the reality of my actions.

I think I remember that you were there with me, for a time. I think I remember that it was dead of winter but I was hot in the emperor’s clothes. Everything was in bloom, rallying together in protest of the cold, everything was impossibly green despite the fact that nothing, nothing at all was alive. I think I remember that there was a before for us, though we were never allowed, no, no, no. We touched without touching and kissed though we were miles apart. I remember that. And despite the fact that I am alone and un-alone, here, here, naked in the night, I think it is the memory of your warm breath that still haunts my skin.

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