I asked someone to help me find you,
before I even knew what you looked like,
and then,
suddenly,
like lightning lighting up the sky,
or an abrupt change of direction,
I was staring into your eyes,
realising that I’d found where I was supposed to be.
It was so simple, yet so complicated,
because I was marked,
scarred,
collared by the calling of my trauma.
It howled outside my window,
every night,
around ten PM,
when you would call.
I’d have a conversation with you,
while mocking memories stared with blank boredom from across the room,
pointing at your picture,
slicing their necks with their fingers,
some kind of siren,
maybe a message,
cruel and deceptive.
I’d lose myself in how I would lose you,
so you thought that I was gone,
but I was just fighting monstrous memories,
in the darkness,
hoping the brightness of your eyes would guide me home,
when I was done.
