The Fan Is Still On

delightfully painful no it’s not a delight i’m finding no peace within this ache

i can feel the marks on my face from where you scratched me still red, still raw they sting

i can still feel the ghost of your hands tugging at my hair forcing my head back just to spit in my mouth

i do not want any piece of you to be a part of my body but your remnants stay there anyway sometimes i remember it when i’m lying awake at night sometimes it even creeps into my dreams, turning my sound slumber into one of rigid restlessness

if you were here maybe i would say something but probably not fearing your iron fist and words that are sharpened like daggers

i don’t wish for the blade to be plunged into my chest again not if i can avoid it maybe i do have self-preservation after all but just this once

if you were here— but you aren’t whisked away, nothing but a whisper that i can only hear when my eyes are squeezed tight and the fan is turned off

racking my brain for what sort of punishment this may be for did i do something bad again? i can’t think of anything other than my own associations

would you say that is still fair? should the present never be considered in accordance with the past?

you’re a ghost to me but even then not quite ghosts will make a noise, a creak or a whimper

there’s nothing but radio silence here part of me wishes to bash my head into the stereo until it shatters into a million pieces

would you visit me then? probably not. it’s best not hope.