I am an old friend of bruised knees and bathroom floors, exhaling until the chest is empty and body no longer breathing; only absence lives here now. Cold stone tiles, so we meet again: spilling secrets into each otherβs mouths until we see the light of dawn, we whisper with a hope of being heard, yet fear of being listened to. For weeks I have been swallowing metaphors like honey, gulping down apologies for breakfast, biting my tongue until the taste of forgiveness fills me β for once my throat is not made of molasses. There is a reason why our hearts began to curl like fists and we aimed them at ourselves, because after all, self-love has always been the most important thing.