This room,

amidst the piercing crack of light shown through my charming window, is dark.

each night

i slide into bed, remade, after furiously washing my once spotless white sheets,

is stained.

still smeared from dark purple puddles of fine red wine that settle me to sleep.

Every morning,

i sip the strongest shot of coffee to stir me awake, stamping my sheets once more. 

my hands

with dried and bloodied knuckles, cracked from the scolding hot steam and scrub,

and heart

[ i ] try erasing the memory of love from my bed frame.

hurt.

|crs|

 

You are not part of my story anymore.

I’ve ripped your binding from my spine, loosening pages within chapters from their sewn in threads that have been left to dangle, with their thick braid of cording, for far too long.

I needed to finally be woman enough to tear you out of my womb of regret, into my hands of strength, crumbling up each tale with clenched fists; releasing you into the flames that warm this barren room.

I sit and watch the fiery pages cremate one by one, softening my soul, reviving my heart; igniting me from a blaze of independence – the burn of letting go.

|crc|