I hate the word ex.
It sounds like nails on a chalkboard
Permanently scratching out what was once written,
Leaving jagged lines over perfect calligraphy.
It describes streaks of blood
Sharp cuts over the softest skin,
But that can’t be right.
There is no blood for me-
A small cordiform bruise
The rests just above my left breast.
It’s a bruise, if left untouched, that causes me no pain
It formed on a sunny day, on the 1st of July
It’s shape leaves warm memories.
To press it brings a dull thud
Pain that shoots to my heart.
I do not fear it,
It’s the same pain that comes
When you let you hair down after a long day,
A steady headache
But one that brings relief.
How can a single word represent that?
What once was
How it used to be
My past love
But it could not be ex.
There is hatred in ex.
And who could hate summer warmth
On the 1st of July?