I’m not going to write poems about him.
I’d rather pretend there weren’t a thousand words collecting
Like a hurricane against my dry autumn heart
And phantom knives that plunge into my chest
Only to leave me still depleted and alive
Enough, to feel the aching that it left me with.
No knife pains as much as the absence of a soul.
My blade traced skin will assure you of this
My silver marked wrists promise me that
Every opened wound will heal eventually.