on that call
you told me to die.
again and again,
you wished me a hospital bed,
breathless,
gone.

i froze.
like a locked house
with all the lights cut.

inside my stomach,
butterflies mutated into bees,
stinging me from within,
so i pressed my palm to the hive
each night.

cause i knew
if i crumbled,
nothing would please you more
than my ending.

ten days later,
you appeared.
no omen, no warning,
just there.

beside you, a blonde.
on you, the shirt i gave,
the same one your mouth
once screamed through
“Burn it all, Let it cave”

irony draped across your chest.
i hated the sight.
i hated you
like the shadow hates light.

my safe place soured,
my ground devoured,
the world smaller
because you walked through it.

your face, once rush
of butterflies near,
now swarm of danger,
a mask to fear.

two days later,
an email came.
an apology.
not for me, no.
for the record.
for your conscience.
for fear of one more enemy.

you cried to your big sister, you said,
for the cuss you spat at me.
how neat.

you get to cut,
then stitch yourself clean?
you get to curse,
then beg not to be cursed?

i let you call.
i wanted you bare.
and you spoke
“just a friend,
nothing there,”
seven years older,
a tour through the street.”
the same one my footsteps
first taught your feet?

you moaned,
said regret had swallowed your core,
but your mouth still hid
the dagger’s three-quarters more.
i listened.
i hated you more.

your email read:
“I’ll forever be rooting for your happiness.”
what a joke.

the same mouth that da*ned me to death
now waves pompoms
from the grave it broke.

remember how you spat
on the only faith i had?
my books. my words.

the ones you burned with your tongue?
don’t worry.
i’ll build a pyre of them
to burn you back.

and honey, don’t stress
i’ll sign the acknowledgments
to you,
via email.