Peeling Veins and Tying Laces

I spent Friday night listening to Taylor Swift

and dreaming of invisible strings, the things

of myths and acoustic guitars

- golden, blue, iridescent in their shine and I thought of the time

you stood gleaming in the light of my attic window and I could have sworn

I glimpsed the thread connecting me to you.

I had to turn, my eyes blinded by the sun

but I knew if I tugged at it you would have come melting all over me

until we puddled together, unable to separate ourselves ever again.

From July to January I sprang in my elastic though between the idea

that you had taken your pocket knife and snipped our string completely,

or that the string had never been one of rom coms and pop songs.

But of our veins ripped from the thin skin

of our wrists and tied crudely together,

bleeding out onto the floor as we danced by the light of the oven,

a love story of skateboards and red flame notifications.

The blue blood vessels taken from our pale flush

like the skin teeth dragged from the side of a nail.

You were the only one who ever saw my pain

and didn’t think of it as a fire to warm your hands beside.

Instead smelling of smoke on your pullover,

you held me close

and helped it to simmer.

And by Monday I had slowly come to terms

with the fact that my heart had been pumping out blood to a unresponsive cause,

and that that was okay.

Because even if your knife was slick,

I was ready to tie the limp string with bunny ears,

no longer terrified of falling in love, and hitting the floor face first.

I don’t know if it was an illusion

of a connection

I had tried so hard to conjure,

white knuckles of a child gripping a balloon tight in the early spring breeze

Or whether it was there at all.

But we were beautiful.

***

Caitlin Mckenna is a Masters Graduate, a writer, and poet from Leeds. As a queer, socialist vegan, Caitlin spends her time baking, napping with her cats, and falling in love many times a day. Her work focuses upon mental health, identity, and self expression.