Curator of My Wreckage
Curator of My Wreckage
by M. Allshouse
I’ve curated the tomes in my library
like a historian who doesn’t know how to preserve or restore.
Torn pages like little love notes,
and leather bound—waterlogged from storms.
Creased edges as I bookmark my favorite parts…
or maybe just the ones that hurt the most.
A need to look back and relive each memory,
like I can see the twists and turns—
like a novel prewritten but still able to be edited.
I’ve never been one for proofreading,
and maybe that’s why I’m so shit with tenses.
Love… loved…
which was it again?
He loved me.
Or maybe he never loved me at all.
Maybe I’m not even talking about him.
Daddy issues surfacing to light
like ink bleeding through the pages
as my tears soak them at night.
Let’s shut that light off for now.
Some monsters deserve the darkness.
And yes, I’m aware
“monsters don’t exist”—
that’s why I referred to them like my dad.
Pages of some of my most influential pieces
marked with red ink
by past lovers who only wanted to gaslight me.
The marks so heavy
I don’t honestly know what was the original—
only a combination of the third and eighth draft.
He cast himself as the hero.
I didn’t know hero was a synonym for villain.
Or—what I mean to say—
is victim.
Because he definitely painted that picture too.
Is that red ink
or the blood that smeared around the bruise?
The bruise around my soul,
like how he strangled the air from me.
My soul is suffocating,
and honestly,
the lack of oxygen
has made me somewhat insane.
Insane enough to think
I must be the main character.
The beloved character of this anthology.
Otherwise, who would read something so inherently sad?
So I’ll curate this collection.
Because no one else will.
Curator of My Wreckage
by M. Allshouse
I’ve curated the tomes in my library
like a historian who doesn’t know how to preserve or restore.
Torn pages like little love notes,
and leather bound—waterlogged from storms.
Creased edges as I bookmark my favorite parts…
or maybe just the ones that hurt the most.
A need to look back and relive each memory,
like I can see the twists and turns—
like a novel prewritten but still able to be edited.
I’ve never been one for proofreading,
and maybe that’s why I’m so shit with tenses.
Love… loved…
which was it again?
He loved me.
Or maybe he never loved me at all.
Maybe I’m not even talking about him.
Daddy issues surfacing to light
like ink bleeding through the pages
as my tears soak them at night.
Let’s shut that light off for now.
Some monsters deserve the darkness.
And yes, I’m aware
“monsters don’t exist”—
that’s why I referred to them like my dad.
Pages of some of my most influential pieces
marked with red ink
by past lovers who only wanted to gaslight me.
The marks so heavy
I don’t honestly know what was the original—
only a combination of the third and eighth draft.
He cast himself as the hero.
I didn’t know hero was a synonym for villain.
Or—what I mean to say—
is victim.
Because he definitely painted that picture too.
Is that red ink
or the blood that smeared around the bruise?
The bruise around my soul,
like how he strangled the air from me.
My soul is suffocating,
and honestly,
the lack of oxygen
has made me somewhat insane.
Insane enough to think
I must be the main character.
The beloved character of this anthology.
Otherwise, who would read something so inherently sad?
So I’ll curate this collection.
Because no one else will.