Nina Brav

Writer, Blogger, Entrepreneur

Filtering by Tag: heartbreak

Milk Duds

They're sweet again

no longer unpleasant

to chew

or feel

caramel stuck to teeth

The aftertaste

makes me want

more 

and more

I have

a box to myself

an extra serving

of caramel and calories

but,

as good as they taste

as glad as I am 

to have this

just be mine

I can't help but hope (I'm only stage 5)

they forever taste like

friendship lost 

and love betrayed

to your selfish,

consuming lips.

Untitled

When I replay every memory, he’s the bad guy. It’s like in each photo, thought, and memory from the past four years, this person who I knew and loved is somehow replaced with a hooded bandit. In these new memories he wears a black mask over his eyes. He is sneaky. He wears black gloves and carries a burlap sac where, with a light touch, he puts away trinkets he’s swiped from me over the years.  

 

Yesterday we said goodbye. When he kissed my forehead, he put his hand to my chest, as if to try to reach my heart one last time. And before he left, he gave it all back. He handed me the bag filled with the bounty he collected over the past four years. I surveyed the bag’s contents: broken glass and mirror, rusted jewelry, faded photos. Each item he’d taken was returned shattered, wore, or ruined. My blue striped teakettle, my small beaded jewelry box, a silver necklace my mother had given me on my 18th birthday. All these treasures, like me, diminished.

 

I pulled out some of the shattered bits and held them in my fist. I didn’t care that they cut into my skin. I couldn’t feel. I couldn’t cry. I didn’t know he’d taken these things from me. I didn’t know he was a bandit. That is the hardest part, I don’t even know that he is. But whatever he is, he’s gone and I’m alone with just my shattered bits and bloodied hand. I’m alone again, broken again, and sitting on my floor wondering, ‘what now?’

15

You appeared in my dream last night--

A dusty memory that shocked me to my core.

You smiled your devilish grin and,

suddenly, I was 15.

 

Your slimy words slithered into me,

"Great to see you..." they hissed,

"Can I see you again before I leave?"

The black pit rolling around in my stomach got bigger

"Sure," I managed.

--In fell my lungs.

 

After I walked away,

shocked

from having seen you

for the first time in so long,

I cried. Well, dream me cried.

 

My dream self mourned for the broken-

hearted youth you left behind

so many years ago

in your trail of destruction.

 

The poor young girl who,

apparently, 

still lives inside me--

15, weak, and broken.

She grips her insecurities

like an even younger me

might've gripped my stuffed dog's paw. 

 

I woke up.

It was a dream, of course I woke up.

But the black pit never subsided

and my mind couldn't stop kept lingering 

on the his playful smile

and his gentle touch that burned

my cheek.

A scab, it seems, I picked raw

--aching, bleeding, fresh,

like when I was 15.