I opened, at last,
and then you went
taking the things that had cushioned this fall
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