Gradually I am surrounded,
cornered and helpless.
Memories of you chase me down
but it is only myself
hunting myself.

You shine like the sheen of a knife,
slick with the blood of my back.
And still I crave your eyes
my own reflection,
longing for me to turn.

I was afraid, love, but I had to.
I think back to when we were one:
me cradling a raven in my ribcage,
its wings black with hunger,
its beak already tearing.

Without you, I am hollow;
with you, I am full
but only with poison,
bubbling to the brim.
So I turned the switch,
and drowned your voice in silence.

I will not walk into your dagger again.
Your memories rain down
bullets I dodge,
arrows loosed from my own hands.

Do you remember the running,
circles upon circles,
careless, unchained, free?
Now it is only me,
humming an old sad song,
alone with the echo.

Still, the raven stirs.
Its wings scrape bone,
its shadow darkens my lungs.
It waits for me to falter,
to turn,
to bleed again.

But I will not feed it.
Not this time.
The knife will rust,
the raven will starve,
and I will walk out of the circle
alive.