I.
writing when you can’t look at yourself
in the broken glass on your kitchen floor,
when you sweep it up while looking at the bugs
crawling out of the cracks in your ceiling,
when you bring the broom close
a piece of glass scratches your bare foot
and blood blooms onto the floor —
writing when life becomes the metaphor
you want to pulp onto a screen —
writing like that becomes violence.
a lobotomy of all the things you hide
so that you won’t chew off your own fingers.
II.
after
he said “see, i knew i should keep going”
and i thought he wouldn’t willingly hurt me
so i smiled and lay in his bed like nothing
happened.
after
he said “i had forgotten” and smiled sheepishly
like he had forgotten to mention he was vegan
and not that he had herpes. i stayed the weekend
anyway.
after
his brother messaged me because he had heard
things from other (ex)partners-victims-survivors
and i had replied with three paragraphs that said
nothing.
III.
afterafterafter
i sit, boiling.
i sit, avoiding the mirror.
Photo by CHUTTERSNAP on Unsplash
