Ex

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?

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