We’re like bookends,
holding the same callused stories between us
but we will
never meet.

I took a photograph of you and left
it on the surface of the moon.
I get to outlive your body, okay? You’ll
exist in image only
on an entirely different sphere.
So what if it’ll continue to orbit around me?

Here’s the thing, “Julie”,
I’m not a building.
I’m already built.

I killed you years ago.
I braided your long hair into a noose,
let you hang indefinitely, gave
your feminine remains to
little girls with cancer.

I engraved, ‘Luke’, on the head of a bullet
and shot it into your skull.

And you wanna know how I got these
scars!?
I ripped every last piece of you out
of my wrists.
Every narrow shoulder
wide hip
delicate voice
long eyelash
soft skin
round breast
Every ******* ‘womanly’ thing.

Most of the time I hate you with as much vitriol as I can muster, but,
sometimes
I love you

Sometimes,
I’m sorry you need to be cut up
so I feel whole again.

You’re the reason I find myself
in doorways crying.
And if I’m being honest, I’m terrified of leaving you.

I keep thinking:
Will our stories have the strength to stand when only one of us is left?