SPOKEN SCARRING, by Liam “Lee” Balmeo

I lied when I said that it was better off this way, holding that

gray slug upon our chests.  Your harsh voice had struck a forest,

explosions growing from   our uneven breaths. I lied when I said

it was fine, waiting for    you that night. I knew where you were

after I saw that stain     on your shirt and smelled whiskey on

your breath. I lied       when I said that we were fine—I knew

what you were on.      Your tongue snapped into a rubber band

while you cursed        under your breath. I lied when I said we

were fine. I still        feel your raggedy breath down my neck. I

lied when I said         that you loved me. You wanted to feel loved

no matter who         shared the same breath as you. I lied when I said

that your family        was like mine. I saw and knew the chemicals

that brewed inside       each of their breaths. I lied when I said you

were the only one      for me, when our love became a birch. That

tree of ours has lost    its breath after running from your last laugh.

It hurt, by the way;     pulling out the splinters and wood chips

doused in poison—    scratches becoming wounds becoming sores

with never-ending     bloodshed. It was because I lied when I said

that we had become    nothing, that you finally became something to

Our exhales and                 inhales kindled the seeds to blossom,

breaths birthing a    new beginning. I lied when I said that you

weren’t important  to me, words falling down my shoulders like

my flower petals. In that forest we called “home”, fragments of your

poisonous birch flow through my veins until I finally lose my breath.