this infatuation follows me everywhere
—a ghost that does not realize it is dead.
it is still convinced it has some life left,
it is still convinced it is welcome in the home
you let it thrive in until there was nothing left to feed it.
it is still convinced you wanted it to live;
it is still convinced you cared enough to try.
the difference between our graveyards
is you never had anything to bury.

I still put flowers by our potential.
I still water a garden of wilting plants
that look like the first time you didn't say good morning,
that look like the waning smile on your lips,
that look like the hesitation when I asked
if you ever felt anything at all.
they keep withering
until the only remnant of our relationship
is a headstone that reads
here: lies.

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.