the first time you left, I hid your things in the crawl space behind my door. you found them and unpacked them and I let you back in without question. you wrote letters on my walls in black marker and they still won’t go away.
the second time you left, you called me crying and told me to start writing a eulogy. I imagined telling everyone how you could never hurt me. I imagined lying to a half-empty room.
when I told you to leave, you yelled my
name like it was acid and you were scared it would burn holes in your tongue. it broke your heart like glass and I didn’t offer to pick up the pieces this time.
when I closed the door, I could still hear you screaming for help. some nights, I swear I still do. but I won’t, I won’t, I won’t help you and you’re on your own. my hands have healed and you’re all alone.
— the rock series // a.m