once I was yours, truly.
now hate is a blanket I wrap around myself,
but despite its comfort my blood still runs cold.
I’d rather shiver in its warmth
than ever let you touch me again.
it’s worthless rage –
a feeling I use to stitch old wounds.
it never stays together long enough to heal,
but it only unravels when I am alone.
in a room full of observers,
I choke down all the names I could call you.
I put my grief in a costume,
powder its nose and paint its eyelids,
until we're not wearing the same face.
my only memory is a light.
I think you tore it out of me.
I think I stopped breathing.
I think my lips turned blue.
I woke up the next morning,
and haven't felt a pulse since.
you threaded needles through me,
hung me up and played with the strings.
a marionette never moves unless manipulated;
a marionette never speaks for itself.
once I had no choice but to be yours, truly.