I am spitting out your name in the back of my bedroom.
I am six cups of coffees in, but that’s besides the point.
I am figuring out which parts of my personality are mine
and which ones I created to please you.
I am still holding onto some of the letters you wrote me.
I tell myself it’s to remember.
I tell myself it’s because I am afraid of forgetting
the early warning signs.
I tell myself I’m not sentimental.
I’m not sentimental.
I’m just afraid of throwing every burning thought
I have about you into the trash
and starting a wildfire.
Thinking about you takes effort now.
These days, if I want to bleed you out,
I have to grab a knife.
This is a form of self-abuse.
This is a form of reliving my youth.
This is a way to remember what it felt like to be near you.