after your lobotomy smiling, with the personality of an oyster, you listened while I told you about you. you liked me better once you had forgotten me, and I wondered when you began to give up on me. what had done it? maybe it was when you realized that mandalas were used by Hindus and Buddhists; you hated the sacrilege that I committed with colored pencils. it is still manifesting, permanent ink on my arms, needles reminding me how it feels to not be flatlining, displaying who I am in such a way that I can no longer hide it. I feel more alive than ever before when I am naked. everything changed when you were taught to be ashamed of me. when you forgot your walls and why you had built them, when you forgot that I was a sinful child “going down an unhealthy path,” you looked at me, for the first time in a long time, with love in your eyes. all I wanted was for that look to last a lifetime. something precious was stolen from me, and from you too; the problem is I realize it and you don’t. you forgot you said, “you don’t give up on someone you love.” you thought it would cheer me up, but it didn’t. it only made me feel worse that you entertained the idea of giving up on me. and for what? for my spirituality? for my tattoo? if anyone should give up, goddamn it, it’s me. Holley Hyler has been published in Adelaide, Buck Off Magazine, Rebelle Society, and The Urban Howl. She was a finalist in the 2017 Adelaide Literary Awards with her essay, “Nonlinear,” and again in 2018 with a poem entitled “Clytie.” She is passionate about sixties music and the guitar. You can find more of her work on her website, holleyhyler.com.
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