I realize that she must have tasted like me when I was with you. Bare to the bone and yet so reluctant to be exposed, buried in clothing like ashes cover a fire that has been burnt to a crisp. Reluctant, invulnerable, a scarcity to the number of times she’ll lick her lips in fear it’s too telling of who she really is.
I realize I must have built you up like she did to me. Quick to gather parts she swears she knows about you, igniting some type of hellish understanding inside your brain that this person actually gets you. On some level of distrust and low self esteem that you won’t admit holds you tight to your bed every time you think of the words I love you spoken on your ex lovers tongue.
I realize that she must have torn me open like I did with you. Unknowingly, so cryptically, like she was taking apart puzzle pieces you thought you completed so cleverly, one by one while all she could see was dried up blood disappearing from her left wrist.
I realize she must have made me gasp like I did to you. Awful, burning, crazy, terrified, open like a candle’s wax that melts into itself, creating a transparent layer where you can see pieces of the wick that broke off but were never lucky enough to disintegrate, like pieces of your own being, like pieces of your mangled heart.
And don’t ask me why as I struggle to ask her why not. Anxiety coated panic attacks that taste like liquor I once told you to drink, spitting up blood thinking it’s some type of sign you’re greater than your angriest demon. An illusion that she makes you feel at peace, an illusion that you’re home.