I knew it was going to hurt.
Like a severed limb, cut off, bleeding
it was always going to have an unsavoury feeling.
The amputation was set in motion back in January
when I told you I didn’t love you
anymore
and we ran circles around our words
had muffled conversations in burger bars
and pressed our palms together in desperate solidarity
and then we waited.
The operation commenced in the month of May
when we went our separate ways
left with bloody stumps, the both of us
our bandages were cherry-red and ached
we knew it would take time to heal.
What I didn’t bargain for was the loss of two limbs
– one for you and one for the country we’d lived in
that sun-dappled, banana breeding ground closer to Africa than Europe
which I would moan about and rant about to reluctant relatives
who told me “just come home”
and now I miss that platano-infested wasteland
of orange-gold hills clad in the sun’s rays
ugly, Arizona-esque but comforting all the same.
We left our flat and burned our bridges
and ripped out our relationship’s stitches
left your handy, hopeful car
tucked away behind a few bushes by the airport
and made a dash for it, a dash towards the unknown.
These bloody stumps may never heal
because I loved you and our life
and now I’ve broken the seal.
Talking to my pillow. 