Matryoshka

a poem

The Lives of Depressed Matryoshkas - Jardley Jean-Louis

Bitter, gritty
were your words.
I spat them out,
but the taste stayed,
metallic, mineral,
like an iron supplement.

Tired, drained
you made me a bulb with no light.
And if anyone has earned
the right to grip resentment,
it is me.
I hold it tight,
even as the double-edged blade
slices into my own palm.

Careful, cautious
I tiptoe, terrified to crack the floorboards
you demand stay immaculate.
I consider every inch because I care.
But you still find the one thing
buried and forgotten,
exhume it,
and use it.

I'll never forget what I forgot,
because you are the relentless archivist
of my failures.

You douse me in something with no name,
hold my head under
till I stop moving.
Does it go quiet in you, too,
the moment I do?
Tell me
does breaking me
finally make you complete?
It’s a Matryoshka cycle:
the water they forced down your throat
is the same one
you drown me in.