Rose McCoy (she/her) is a writer, musician, and activist based in West Virginia. She falls in love at least once a day and tends to write poems to that effect. She is the author of When the World Didn’t End (Naked Cat Lit Mag) and Grief is an Anchor (Maverick Duck Press), two chapbooks upcoming in October 2023. Her published works and assorted musings can be found on Twitter @24hrmccoy.

Music Therapy

[psych hospitalisation tw]

what it looks like when i lie to myself

i. it isn’t that i love you or anything, it’s
just that yours is the first name on my
lips every morning when i wake, and
that when i walk along the sidewalk i
leave room for you, and that you’re so
much a part of me now i couldn’t get rid
of you if i wanted to. you are the second
layer of skin around my fingers, a
constant & infinite reminder, part
wound & part fate.

ii. it isn’t that i love you or anything, it’s
just that two a.m. couldn’t hold a candle
to how much i miss you, and that i die in
the mocha & caramel of your eyes, but
i’d die before i didn’t. you are the
dawn and the dusk and my memories of
you are like knives: i return to them
again and again. i routinely forget which
part to hold and i didn’t know someone’s
palms could carry so much blood.

iii. it isn’t that i love you or anything, it’s
just that my body is your body, my
words your words, and if you need
someone to cut the ropes as the train
comes that’s why i’m here. if you need
someone to pull your hair back or to
hold your body amidst tremors, i swear i
surrender freely. it isn’t that i love you or
anything, it’s just that the ghost of you
in my bed is taking up too much space
again, and i’m letting her. not because i
love you, though. it’s just easier to let her
win.