Six.

Sometimes I catch myself
wandering in those depths of my mind
I thought
I had long ago excommunicated.

Those depths you touched,
that only you have touched.

I amble through those dark rooms
no bulbs of light, no burning wax,
just the inconsistent flicker of fireflies
against the walls,
small, fuzzy bursts of
faded, disjointed memory,
to remind me of what we were.
Or what I thought we were.

I wonder sometimes
(all the time)
why you choose him
(instead of me).
Why you disappeared
inside his abuse,
held it against my mouth
to suffocate us both.
Why you coveted his hatred
and banished my love.

I decorate our forgotten halls
with my questions
because they have
nowhere to go
except
somewhere inside of me,
and this is the only somewhere
I can sometimes
forget.