What You Took, What I Kept

When all of my insides
were dragged outside—
because I gave them to you.
And you took.
And took.
Then came back
and took some more.

Yet somehow,
I am not empty.

I’ve scrubbed the floor.
Wiped the dried blood
from the dead cat

That lay by the door—
the soft one who purred
and brushed his warm face
against your legs
while you stood in my house,
trying like hell to erase 

me.

Did you know?
As you stripped me down
to sinew and soul,
tore the tender parts,
and scattered them
to the cold, howling wind—
like they meant nothing?

But the wind remembers.
It bites.
It whispers my name
in your ear
as you walk
beside another.

You’ll never again
feel my hand on your face,
or see my smile,
full of the kind of love
that doesn't vanish
with silence.

And when you stand alone,
searching for your own face
in a crowd
or in a shallow gray puddle
that holds the rain—
my tears, and maybe theirs—
you might finally see
what you couldn’t hold.

We are still.
We do not sway
in the wind of hollow words.

We rise.
Like the lotus etched into my skin,
blooming over murky waters—
untouched
by your sins.