Words Unsaid

By Chris Biles

I see my sins
thick on the walls
in the blinding reflections
on the glass of my dark window,
in my own shadow
trailing me even
in the blackest of nights
those lacking any pinprick
of light in the dense atmosphere,
within my body
cradling me
in my sheets
as I sleep
as I dream
as I run.

Each night
before bed
I fathom the wounds
of my words unsaid.
Because you are dead.
I sit numb on the hardwood
fingers raked through my hair
high on hate
yet heavy
drunk
on red
red
wine.

Band-aids
over wounds that weep
with the weight
of injustice 
don’t stand a chance.
But all I had were band-aids.
Cowed as witness to the horrors
you have always known
in the moments that mattered
I failed you.
I claimed the status of friend
of lover
but I am
I was
only ever
your silent pretender.

Chris Biles lives in Washington D.C. and works for the Foreign Agricultural Service. She previously served as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Tanzania (2015-2018), and enjoys losing herself in music and anything outside. Chris has been published in Blueline Magazine, The Laurentian Magazine, Signatures Lit and Arts Mag, and on FEED Lit Mag and SLiPNet. Find her at www.chrisbiles03.com or on Instagram @marks.in.the.sand