there are two versions of this story.
in one version, i survived the fire and walked away. in the other version, i brought its memory with me. this is why i still hold you tight in some nights, fingertips still lingering on my skin. cradled in my heart like something sacred. i haven’t been held for a long time.
at one moment, when i looked in the mirror, i only saw scars and you. now, getting ahold of you is like watching someone else’s life.
i wanted to be able to see the wounds without reopening them. i wanted to be grateful. for you, being my anchor when i couldn’t stand in the storm. keeping my head over the water, watching my bruises get pale. you were the one who stitched my bones. you were the one who sew grief on my lips. i wanted to forget your name turning to glass in my mouth. i wanted to stop my hands from shaking.
the first version would’ve been a good epilogue. but you desired to be brutal. your salt was scattered in my wounds. so when i looked at them, the whole world turned empty. colorless. you liked love sharpening its knife. i like keeping my ghosts silent.