when in spring

Giulia Gudor

there’s a special kind of

intimacy in you knowing

nothing about me: like how

i take my coffee black and

breathe in nature’s scent.

all which are characteristics of you.

coffee: black. no cream, no sugar,

nothing. you told me it’s what you

preferred and i found it nauseating

at first, but i grew to love it once you

were gone, and stand at the ocean’s

feet feeling closer to what could’ve been.

i’ve never known such cruelty until i was

forced to my knees before satan’s throne

and recognized the one upon it as

you. i saw an emptiness in your eyes. your soul

was ice and froze the

tar that leaked from your tongue.

bones decorated the pedestal on

which you were raised. i saw

some as my own: my sacrifices and

shattered illusions. the rest were

from your other victims.

i praise you in knowing how to

ruin one’s mind. how to shift

reality against her and force her to

believe you’re her savior.

it’s a pity to think that you’re

nothing but a boy

untouched by his father’s

heart. i feel as if it’s why you

came to me months later: so

i could give the same cruelty

you’ve been given in a desperate attempt

to convince yourself my love was still there.

it’s the only way you knew how to

love and be loved, and i feel

you still —lingering and waiting—

behind sealed silence,

screaming at me to

let you in. to give a sliver of

myself so you can nurture the broken

parts of your soul.