He kissed me
like he was afraid to break me.
Then broke me
like he was tired
of being afraid.

Every nerve ending—
scarlet, theatrical, yours.
You touched me like a hymn
then left like a plague.
And I still
light candles.

I said I wanted closure,
but what I meant was:
hold my hair while I purge you.
What I meant was:
prove I wasn’t the only one bleeding.

I keep dreaming of you
with your wrists full of carnations,
offering them
like an apology
too beautiful to believe.

Sometimes I picture your face
on the body of someone kind.
And I call it progress.
I call it healing.
I call it
don’t look at me right now.

I see him less now.
Only in mirrors,
or firelight,
or men who say sorry
too soon.

And every time,
I forgive myself
a little more.