Poem – On Mixing Macarons and Vicodin (By Layla Lenhardt)

On Mixing Macarons and Vicodin

That winter split me

like firewood. I was smaller,

splintered, Elliot Smith would play

on cassette in my blue Volkswagen,

while our breath coursed

through flared nostrils and damaged lungs.

*

I hid my pain like a sick dog. I slinked

out, under the back deck,

I swallowed some pills.

In those hideous places

I can still smell the acrid, peaty heat

of your breath, reeking like remorse.

*

But even though you swore that you left

I still caught you shoplifting.

Every broken piece of me

you stuffed greedily

into your pockets.

*

The more you took, the more

I couldn’t help but remember you

feeding our cats, their tails licking

around your ankles like muted flames.

And now I’m jealous of people

I don’t know. I want to be that stranger

sitting across from you on the subway.

I want to claim the dust you leave behind.

 

[su_layla_lenhardt]