Shrike

There are the bits and pieces of us,
deep past the green parts of Jamaica Plains,
in the first apartment
on the second floor, like some carcass
of an unfortunate thing,
strung about haphazardly, splayed out
in your old storage closet, dead;

probably, hopefully;
hiding, hidden, hung on the
branches of the IKEA bookshelf
with the wobbly third panel,
we lost the screw;
crudely spiked on the brambles of the
budget coat hangs, cluttered but empty,
just in a different way then
when we struggled to fill them;

the half-opened box of
Adventure Time band-aids,
four left in the packet, the
CVS had them for kids but
you insisted, left on the TV stand
where we pile our mail;

we never bothered with the silver screen,
nearly, at least, the lazy bone
always had company, abandoned
but never lonely, showing off
its coat of dust, five shows we’ve started,
six you probably finished on your own;
seven months together, the summer apart,

I would’ve never stayed, but the thorn
in my heart kept me in place, knowing
I would be butchered and flayed;
let me finish, let me just say:
we were both birds, we were both prey;

the first apartment on the second floor,
where the pieces of me lay,
just found new people today;
unlike you, unlike me,
my little shrike.
Let go.
Forget.