Tell me Again by Cerid Jones Tell me again how you do not love me. Tell me slowly. Softly. Tell me how you do not ache for the space between us to fold in on itself like a smothered flame. Tell me again how you do not see me as an answer to the dull hum in your head. Tell me slowly. Softly. Tell me you do not dream of me, how there is no room in the vacant corridors you hold under your rib cage for me to waltz in. Tell me, softly, slowly, that my skin did not comfort the ache in your bones. Tell me again, you do not want me. Tell me again. Tell me over and over that I was not made of the light you look for in your shadows. Tell me, slowly. Tell me softly. And each word you say in refusal of me I will hold under the pallet of tongue And taste and savour And feel dissolve And when it reaches my clavicle I will let them bloom across my breast plate, tell me Softly, slowly, you do not love me So I might I remember how you did And that memory Become stronger than the wound you left we with. So tell me again, my love, how you do not want me Tell me softly, tell me slowly And let me drink you in again.
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Cerid Jones, is a life-long closeted writer only just learning how to be brave enough to share her musings. A lover of folk tales and myth, she hails from Aotearoa (New Zealand). Growing up in a house where there were more books than wall space and fae at the bottom of the garden, she has always been a creature with a passion for the arts and literature. Reading anything that transports her elsewhere or delves deep into the psyche of human nature, she has found a home working in the publishing industry and teaching people how to throw axes.
