The Thief by Meggie Royer

Berried in Snow by Jude McConkey
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The Thief

You want to steal your body back from his bed- the way his hands cupped your hips,
the way your mouth still remembers the taste.
To go back there and pick the lock on the door, enter the bedroom
and remove the ghost of yourself from underneath the covers.
This is the way you remember moments:
the cold coffee and the vanilla candle on the table,
and you know. You know.
Even when your body is lifted from the wreckage, when it’s carried out the house
and returned to its own room,
even there you’ll still be a shipwreck.
Buried in something that’s deeper than blue- cobalt, dark grey
while everyone stands above you
watching you try to remember how to breathe
the same way someone who falls through the ice in winter
lifts a hand up through the surface
as if a stranger could be bothered to grab it.

 


Meggie Royer

Meggie Royer is a Midwest writer and photographer who writes about survival and love. In March 2013, she won a national Silver Medal and a Gold Medal in the 2013 Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. Her work can be found at writingsforwinter.tumblr.com.