The Smell of GoodbyeI smell like sadness, a dozen hot summer days infused to my skin, my pupils quiet in the darkness, smeared makeup, cheeto breath, and a thousands reasons to never wake up. I smell like mourning, when someone decides that life is not quite worth 100% while as death will have to wait: the silent grey of monotonous coexistence with reality. I smell like depression, the stench of unmotivation, last week’s morning hair stuck to my scalp. I bet you smell like sandle-wood and sweat. The perfect concoction of masculinity. Then the aroma of a fresh shower, the spice of natural body odor, the tinge of after shave. You’re an atmosphere I’ve almost forgotten existed, but yet can’t breathe without.I remember our smell: an infusion of salty, sweet, and everything in between. Eliciting the most positive kind of medley: like Thai food, just the right amount of all the flavors, the weirdest blends in a captivating combination. An impression that forever lasted, until yesterday.I think about all the yesterday’s because there won’t be any tomorrow, with you. I smell a hint of sour wine, the scent of regret. The brew-ish whiff of a handful of rotten grapes decaying on the windowsill. I smell raw blood leaking from my punctured fingers, grabbing handfuls of shattered glass. I smell smoke as the fire of your anger burns through my memory.I smell him, the acidity of betrayal in your eyes— a skunk would be jealous. The room reeked bitter of broken promises. You were the hallmark of vindication. Today it stinks of ripped hearts and rotting souls. I was the wild card you pulled from a sinking ship, and you were the quiet lullaby my mother used to sing me to sleep.Now you’re just a whiff of a scent I induce in retrospect. The unforgiving stereotype, the savory gourmet sauce that reminds me of criticism. I blame myself, I blame you. Unresponsive is my heart as I cut it from my chest with silver tendrils of crystal glass. It smells of cool afternoon and unwashed carpet. And then it smells like death. Self-blame is a hint of ashes and a rotting open wound filled with maggots. Suicide is the smell of disease infested waters and a million mosquitoes. I hope I’m the whiff you’ll recollect with a smile of sunshine and strawberry ice cream. Because today I smell like decaying contrition. A cold body wrapped in suffocatingly miserable ashes, a final goodbye.

May 2nd, 2016, 10am

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benya wilson

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