You smelled like money when you pulled me out of the
Hudson, threw me a life raft in the form of a hundred
dollar bill. I wasn’t worth the 5 or 6 hours you spent
breathing the life back into me, as it’s all but
escaped by now. There’s an ache in me that even
fast food, JD, and nicotine haven’t succeeded at quelling,
and the familiarity of being comfortably numb beneath you has
worn off, and I don’t know which way to turn in
this dark room. Either way I go, I feel the reminders
in your knees, your elbows. My entire body is a jagged
edge, and there’s nothing left. I am an open wound.
They say that when I’m
happy, there’s a light inside of me that lights up, but I
haven’t felt the warmth of that light in years, and when you asked
me for proof that God doesn’t exist, I directed you into my eyes for
evidence that can’t be translated into any language.
You nodded softly and walked away as I sat on that staircase
that the entire world recognizes. It’s all there.
I was all the proof you ever needed.
