the key

I swallowed the key
to bind a contract,
from a long time ago.

Remember? I told you.

The contract,
made on the floor of
my bedroom
with tears of
wanting spilling onto
pages unwritten
written and scrawled -

Only once did I
attempt to extract it
to save it
to unlock
my cage,
but
couldn't commit
couldn't remember
that it was lodged in
my gut (no one ever told me),
not my heart,
and so am left
with a scar
in the wrong place
marking my mistake
my failure
as proof
I am undesirable.

Sometimes I forget,
about the key
about my scar

I am reminded though,
not by the sight of it,
my scar,
or the sick of it,
my key,
but by the gifts they give,
in passing,
before they leave.

pressed petals.
a ring of glass.
wind chimes.
sunflowers.
dog tags.
an alligator clip.
a patterned tea cup.
a bedtime story.

See,
they give
only
trinkets
found
in passing,
some small something
that reminded them of me,
or rather something to remind
me of them once they leave.

Never something
to keep,
to unwrap,
to unfold,
to nurture,
in their Presence -

Only something to
tangle,
untangle,
shatter,
kill,
and rebirth
over and over
in their Absence.

And so,
my scar
remains.
And
the key
remains
lodged
until
I throw it up
or shit it out
or digest it
completely
out of existance.