By: Amanda Woodard
Sunlight strips the blinds & casts them aside.
It’s the morning after.
In this blind light, his pupils make room for blue
& I tell him, I hate the beach,
all that hot sand burning; how the ocean
wants to kill you.
But I don’t think it would hurt to drown
in the way he looks at me, his irises reflecting
someone else erasing the stretch marks
that would tell him all my secrets.
He kisses me between the lines
he cannot read.
Amanda Woodard is a freelance poet, essayist and ghostwriter, and an MFA candidate at Antioch University. She studied Social Science and Journalism at the University of North Texas and attended writing workshops at the Mayborn Literary Nonfiction Conference and Writing Workshops Dallas. Her work has been performed in Oral Fixation and published in Ten Spurs, eris & eros and FlashFlood.
"This poem is part of a break-up series about a two-year relationship that should have stayed a one-night stand. We both mistook our attraction to one another for passion, letting that alone carry our connection, which was, otherwise, shaky and unreliable. Blind Light is about my refusal to see my true self at the start of that relationship, preferring instead to identify with my partner's incomplete view of me."