I dreamed again that you were dead. There was a hole in the ground and a coffin, some white flowers – you never liked white – and people I haven’t seen in 20 years. They still look the same. "It is my fault," I say and my dream-self feels like 16 again. Sometimes I can still recall your smell when someone passes by, a whiff of perfume on the bus. And the smell of perfume mixes with the taste of smoke. And guilt. You planted it there, nourished it, fed it and unlike your letters I can’t put it away in a cardboard box. As the morning light filters through the curtains, I try to chase away the bad dreams with better memories. I made love in your bed for the very first time the perfect, caring kindness the softness, tender kisses and heated embrace I have to recall with…

It is dark in here and my fingers touch stone,
a hollowed cave beneath tons of rock.
How did I get here?
I can guess.
‘You,’ I say, an accusation in my voice.
‘You showed me the cave.
You’ve let me in!’
But it was me who sealed the exit.
Like a cavewoman
I am drawing your portrait in blood.
I took it directly from my heart,
because that is where you cut deepest.
Later, much later
I huddle in darkness
more afraid then ever of what I might do.
I dream of razorblades and knives,
sharp objects in all their forms,
torn skin
and blood.
I think about needles and scissors,
the flame of a candle
an endless fire.
Sometimes of gurgling waters
and Virginia Woolf
filling her pockets with stones.

About the Poet:

Jessica Holzhausen is a writer and historian researching myths, narratives…