I remember the day you left.
I sat on my floor for hours with my heart in my hands, desperate to find which piece went where.
It was like never became now,
and forever
became nothing.
Your number in my phone became seven digits of
"Never again."
Your hoodie in my closet morphed into the beast all the fairytales warned me about.
Those pictures?
You hated that I took them.
Now,
so did I.
Goodnight texts became read receipts,
and, "I love you" tasted like the blood from a broken jaw,
"Baby", and, "Darling" sitting like shattered bone in paper skin.
I asked myself,
"Why?"
Over,
and over,
and over again.
I was desperate to uncover why I'd let the words,
"We need a break"
fly across the keyboard.
After all,
I was the one who walked away.
Right?
No.
It was you.
It was your mother I never met.
They were your wrists that I kissed.
It was you who was always
"busy",
busy drowning in hands and in lipsticks
that weren't mine.
It was your number that I waited for, my hands choking my phone, barely able to hold on cold and at two A.M.
It was you I caught her under.
You.
It was you,
who walked away,
never wanted it,
failed me.
I didn't walk out on us.
You did.
I just shut the door behind you.
