Candy Veins

I throw away my name like candy on a path.
It means nothing.

I ate through my veins trying to find you.
That is what is real.

You listened to me on the phone.
You thought I spoke nicely.

Now I rarely speak at all.
And I am not nice.

Except I am -
Nice.

The man in the shop saw.
He said you are far too nice.
To do this.
To be this.

He filled my day.
I carried home the blue package with his words wrapped around it like a bow.

Maybe there are still riches left inside.
No quite buried in the dirt. The veins. The powder.

It is hard to wash the dirt off.
It lingers.
Persuasive.
Unyeilding.
Unforgiving.

There are people who are meant to wipe it away but they dare not touch.
Because I am not nice.
Because if they touch me my dirt might follow them home.

I might become real.

To you I will always be the same person.
Trapped in amber.
The one whose name you read out loud.

What a fine surname you said.
And I felt so happy you saw me.
My hair. My smile. My clean, white shoes.

You do not know that my veins are gone.
That my face is no longer a reflection of yours.

That it is not even the face of the old name.

I trap my dirt in a dustpan.
Collect the candy.
Mop the path.

It is so very tiring sweeping up.
The exhaustion so loud it eats through me too.

On Sunday you come back.
I stick you on the cupboard alongside the five reasons.
You are number six.
Your smile gets me through to Monday.

I look at you there.

A cool glass of lemonade waiting by the side of this dirty path.

Like candy.
Like veins.
I still love you.