i wanted to write about the wolf in my chest.
how it is hungry with claws extended, tongue running over it's teeth.
i wanted to write about the thunder in my bones.
it's cry shaking the ground and waking you from your sleep.
i wanted to write about what makes me deathless,
my flesh iron and teeth sharp.

i did not want to write about you.

i did not want to write about the fire you started in me,
that you ran from as you called yourself "brave".
i did not want to write about how there are stones in my throat,
or how exposed the space between my ribs had become.
i did not want to write about the phantom limbs i feel when the air is still.
i did not want to write about sitting in your passenger seat while driving in the dead of night,
mercy in the form of twisted hands and my head in your lap,
like it was that easy,
like you had become comfortable with the cold.

no, i did not want to write about you.

because if i do not speak your name,
if i do not romanticize what was,
i can bury you the way i have before, the bodies piling up,
your name on a tombstone.
maybe it is because you are young and i am tired.

i did not want to write about you.
i have written like this before.
names and dated times to remember when i felt this vacant.
i did not want you to become another page in this black book,
or another reason to believe i am being punished,
my trust in god deteriorating effortlessly,
you sleeping soundly in your bed.

i did not want to write about you, so this is where the verse ends.