after your lobotomy By Holley Hyler

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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