Last year, I saw pictures of the house that ruined my dreams. It was a wilder time, when I hadn't yet made arrangements with myself about which morals I would adopt. I'd strike my own face to try and forget what I looked like inside.

I kept trying to write you letters. I told you that you reminded me of making mistakes. I told you I loved you and meant it, I told you over and over I'd never love again, but we knew we were magnets.

This year, I took time to put colors to my feelings. Green was what I felt when I saw your face. Blue was what I felt when the perfect song came on. I tried to assign a feeling to yellow, but ran away from it, as it reminded me of the week-old bruises you'd give me like you were handing out free stickers.

This here is what it feels like the second before vomit. This here sounds like wind slicing by one pane of glass. This here smells like dying.

It had taken only two years to hate your everything. It took a disease to pretend to forgive you. I'll pretend like I don't want to cut my knuckles on your chest anymore. One pane of glass. Wind. Whistle. Gone.

My eyes are burning my heart space. I've spent hours on hard and soft and cold and lukewarm surfaces trying to get my heart to beat slower. You wanted it fast. If my terror-screaming-hurting-aching-"am I dying?" heartbeat could have been recorded, maybe you would listen to it until you died.

Maybe you would listen to it, clenching fists. Maybe you would listen to it, gritting teeth. Listen to it, gripping sheets. Listen to it, walking briskly.

I made shoes out of forgiveness and morale.
(I never wore them around you.)