It is in these moments late at night that I evaluate your caress,
the way your hands shape my body
and how
your lips criticize my secrets,
in what was meant to be acceptance.

I lay drowning in my own misunderstood falsified memories.
Trying to recall the wake of your voice
only to find a week hum.

How is it that I feel haunted by you when you
are still
                                            here.

It is in these moments that I attempt to make myself a martyr
when in fact,
I already tied your noose.