Ritual

There are no electric lights in here.
Only the sunshine pouring through
the window.
I'm caught up in a golden glaze
I freeze on fire.
Unaccustomed to the light,
I shrink into a corner of my room
shadow for company.

I predict the light is attempting
to perform some bizarre baptism
of my soul.
But I just don't have the energy
and I can't pretend any more.
I'd rather not be under the spotlight,
I already feel as though you can
see into my soul.

There are always shadows here,
I've actually grown used to them.
The scattering and banging
serve only as comfort-
reminding me that I am not
alone in this house.

I suppose he could mistake me for
anybody now, my features and fleshly
form are hidden amongst the darkness.
So perhaps I am still ashamed.

I've scrubbed the sheets again and again
but your scent is so prominent,
nothing will weaken your presence from this house.
Our room- my room now,
has become a shrine to you.
Sickening to see that you still mean
so much to me, after all that has happened.

It took the lights threat to keep re-paying
our past, to drive a reaction from me.
I couldn't keep waking up and seeing the
cherished relics of our past-
which only re-opened my wounds.

I stripped the walls of our photographs,
until they represented those identifiable
walls, that a new house proudly displays.
I had no desire to make anything my own any more.
The layers and layers of white light, flashed so
bright, it made my eyes water.
Collecting flashes of our past in the pools of my
pupils, the transient shaky past
which mercifully, after all this time, dissolved.