Maybe I'm stupid, she says.
Maybe the glass in my lungs is just decoration, the knife in my heart is just an abbreviation.
An abbreviation for the sharp suffering that feels so inadequate.
Maybe it's simpler to put it like that?
Simpler to not speak, simpler to not breathe, simpler to pretend that I'm not crumbling and weak.
Maybe I'm a burden, she says.
Maybe my voice reminded you of barbed wire, maybe I was desired when I was full of fire.
A fire so vast, so burning, so bright- why would you ever want to leave on the lights?
It still burns for you, and I keep choking on ash.
I still feel all the ways in which you loved me last.
It's undying, at least something is. If I said it was me, I'd be telling a fib.