Stolen

I opened, at last,

and then you went

taking the things that had cushioned this fall

with you.

And what a silly girl I am

for pretending this wouldn't

hurt me properly after all.

Because now a thousand knives penetrate my skin

and I am a thing

on a list that stretches a mile long.

I am the past. I am a story. I am words.

I am not a heart or a feeling.

With love, Beau xx