(Mouthwash, shaken up in the kitchen cabinet and lunch for two.)

I bottled every bit of sorry you gave me, even if the sentiment wasn't there and nothing you ever told me about the knives I took from you was true.
How could you take my sense of safety? How could you rob me of my intuition? How could you choke the life out of me?
You didn't have hands, not even claws, you had jaws the size of Arizona and a tongue so arid the flies didn't think to find the leftover bits of corpses in between your teeth.
Give me the truth.
What's wrong with you?

I just want you to once imagine, without ink on your skin, without the superficial cuts on your wrists, every lie you ever told to be more like everyone else, different, I want you to imagine the color of my eyes.

(You stripped me of my happiness, turpentine. Jail breaker. Head nodder. You erased my chances. Hope is the sunset. Hope is the sunset.)