Goodbye, No More Poem by Christine Austin Cole

[Parting is never easy... not even for the unfortunately well practiced]



… again, our voices lower

and I go about the business of trying
to stop my voice from breaking, relegated
to leaving those strange, little gaps in the
winding-down. The most-brave of me is filling
them silently, insistently – her uncluttered,
self aware, straight-from-the-hip
commentary aimed first in my direction
(“Tell him! ”) , her lips twisting from
crooked smile to something more sinister
as she screeches mute. Sometimes,
I try to ignore her, quiet her, distract her.
Sometimes… I answer honestly (“I can’t, ”
I whisper-reply) only to feel her seize
some part of me that hasn’t a name, to sense
her impossible eyes staring deep into mine,
unforgiving. We dance through the gap;
a twisted tango, our mediocre demonstration
of the love-hate between us spreading
itself like black oil across an invisible floor
as the music fades.

… but she is losing patience

and she wants something different,
something so very much more. She is
a good deal older than I am now - slogging
so long through the mixed emotions of patience
and persistence has aged her. She was delicate
once, graceful, but she looks as raw as Truth himself
as she jerks and turns, spinning me out of
control. (“You HAVE to! ”) She is raging now.
Her sharp voice has become a monster in itself –
the thick, dark pain-anger of no more, the kind
of beast I've long since realized was intentionally
left out of fairy tales. Its claws make contact,
leaving bright red gashes to mark the spot where
my bravery should be. Then, she suddenly gives
up on me and turns away. I have proven myself,
again, to her obvious dissatisfaction,
a disappointment.

… and he declares his love

in a warm and wonderful, unhesitant and
unsuspecting voice and something deep
inside me feels him letting go. It whimpers
and burns, pulling itself into a fetal knot,
drawing her attention. She glares in my direction
for the last time, the flame in her eyes making it clear
who she blames – and then, she turns on him.
I lunge for her, screeching mute, knowing
even she, our most brave, can take no more.
She is raging self preservation, mother-like
protector; she is our every voice and more.
Her lips draw back as my hand passes
through her, revealing the fangs I had,
foolishly or fortunately, forgotten. In slow
motion, he is turning away and in
wide eyed horror I watch as she fills the air
behind him with her schizophrenic
blood-howl. (“I [We] don’t want to [can’t]
do this again [anymore].”)

… and he is gone, again.