To Bear Witness Poem by Tureygua Inaru

I used to read all of your poems
but you don't write about me anymore.
Before you left
you gave me your eyes. You popped them out
shook them like a pair of dice
and threw them on the floor at me.
'You're welcome'.
Indian Giver.
But you didn't want them back.
You said you no longer needed them.
Somehow that was worse.
I wanted to look away from you
but I could never
even as you sneered at me
and set yourself on fire.
I think you chanted
went through the motions
of religious rituals
just to prove you could
making a spectacle of self-discipline
until your point was proven.
One night
while the rest of the world was sleeping
you got up, from eternal seated lotus
your spirit
as thin as a butterfly's wing.
You stepped out of Your body
shrugged it off
like an old pair of overalls
and flew away
forever
into a forest
into a mist
somewhere you needed to go
somewhere not here
somewhere on
somewhere nice and magical and wonderful
where you don't have to think about those people
and what they did to you.
You don't remember me.
I don't want you to.