Sometimes we only burn bridges because we’re told it’s what to do. Tell me you’ve made up your mind while I see fire in your head. Cutting off the cords so effortlessly like they’re made of ashes of every set of lips you once loved. But tell me why, why, why do you push out your hands, turn your palms towards my eyes so I can see the blood that drips so carefully out of your fingertips. A hidden care, a type of burden, of every word you carried on your back that pierced from your mother’s lips onto your own tongue. Now you speak with such judgment, such cruelty, and you ask again and again for redemption and I wonder how long until you realize you’ll never get it. Fantasize letters that spell out your own name until they twist like the wet cloth you held over your head every time you felt like dying. Regret, regret, regret dripping like a warmth that now burns your chest from the inside out. And you ask why, why, why to a world that owes you nothing.