Aura by Courtney Brooks

Aura

you bisect my brain        
an intruder                                     kicking the door open
you arrange a recliner               so you can watch
my neurotransmitters misfire

you redecorate my vision    
tv static crescents                       replacing peripherals        
I didn’t need to see my husband’s face anyways

you put your feet up 
and demand to know 
who it was that told me I could have a life                     without you

I lock my amygdala when you leave
but then you throw your suitcase through a window the next time
shine a flashlight in my eyes

I think I’m fine but                     you remind me that “fine”
is duct tape on a severed limb
is driving with blinders on my face
is saying a prayer for sumatriptan before I hit my head against the wall
               “fine” is you moving into my bedroom, taking over the lease, changing the locks

you don’t put your toothbrush in your overnight bag anymore
or leave your shoes at the doormat
instead, you rearrange my spice cabinet alphabetically
                (I can’t see the letters anyway)
and you say

                                                               welcome home

​

Courtney Brooks is an MFA candidate at Northern Arizona University, as well as the web editor for Thin Air Magazine’s online journal. She reads and writes fabulism and horror, and is a sucker for an all-black outfit. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in The Tunnels, Thin Air Online, and Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review. When not buried in her work, you can probably find her in the woods somewhere, thinking about monsters.