Acolyte

by Nicole Entin

It is neither the summoning ritual,

nor the purgation. The catharsis that pours out

bluebells and stolen metaphors and quicksilver

from my veins, then the memories, the memories –

it is a tender sort of pain, one that soothes

the incandescent hurt as soon as it is inflicted.

The memories are like a wave. They rush forth

only to recede within.

My mind at four in the morning, overgrown 

with lavender and valerian, hazy mist

lingering at the foot of the bed.

say that you will never leave me even if you do

Haven’t I been your acolyte long enough?

I crawled on the ground you walked

long enough, catching the remnants of your bloodletting

so that I could inhabit the state of you, the body.

Endless sea, tainted soul.

I find it so hard to forgive,

but I promised the hurt would be forgiven.

In the end, it never works. It always ends.

It always ends with

that final feeling of forgetfulness

as I drift off, unmoored. Your smile

wrenching my heart from my body

you were so beautiful when you broke me

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