I never believed you when you said
that you were a wolf in sheep’s clothing,
until now.
You are too poisonous to be anyone’s cure;
did you know that I didn’t
need anyone until I met you,
or that before I never once
cursed at the stars because
I forgot what it meant
to love myself?

Please stop whispering
my name at three in the morning
and weaving Foxglove laced threads
through my heart
and don’t even think
about kissing my hands
or murmuring your darkest secrets
while you sleep next to me because
you don’t need me
and I’m as tried and tired
as my grandmother’s splintering rocking chair
of you needing you.