Nov. 14, 2022
Break
This morning the sky cracked open like an egg and hundreds of birds flew overhead, like somebody spilled a jar of pepper across the sky.
No matter how long I live, I am still unprepared for the beauty of this life.
I stand in your doorway, reflecting each attack you deliver like a boomerang that flies right back in your direction.
I am rubber and you are glue. Whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you.
You used to sleep in my bed. Now I am not permitted in your corner.
You once got a splinter wedged in your foot so deeply that the doctor had to break it in two to remove it.
I held your hand.
Now the entirety of you is a universe that I can’t understand. My breath fogging up your window is all the warmth you will tolerate.
Turns out what you create will be exactly what breaks you.
I never meant to hurt you.