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| image: https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/109423465919646159/ |
Shutting all the windows and doors now is pointless.
The bat is inside, and flap-banging itself on the ceiling.
One half of my brain is occupied with trying not to kill it
While I am swinging a broom, shooing it toward the window.
The other half, as it is these days, is occupied with you.
You are just like this bat. I want to shut you out of my heart,
But you are trapped in here, flap-banging around, bruising me.
Breaking things. I know that no broom can sweep you out.
The bat has found a spot on the ceiling out of my reach
And rests, claws like Velcro, holding on tight. Its sides heave
Rapidly, breath and heartbeat. But it is still. I put the broom away
And admire the tiny furry winged thing. Little head. Little ears.
Maybe this will happen with my memories of you, too. They will rest,
Find a safe spot to stick and stay. Will I be able then to study you,
Remember your beauty and brilliance and let go of what should have been?
I am angry. I miss you. You were wrong. I was wrong. Flap-bang.
Half my brain is thinking I might need to call someone to rescue the bat.
It really does need to go, no matter how many mosquitoes it eats. If it stays,
it will fly at my head and tangle in my hair, I just know it. But just as I
type, “bat removal” in the search bar, it lets go its clutch, and flies out.
The half of my brain not clinging to you knows to close the window now.
