I lied.
Sacrifices were not meant
to be excuses,
or confessions
of love
where your stubbled face
laces the mirror:
reflections trying to attack me,
remind me of what
I'd be better off
without
and I couldn't see the walls;
voids blurring vision and
vision losing value
like your hands:
limp, frozen
after stitching scars
on my skin -
solid bruises
stored in ice.
You blamed me
for my mistakes,
accusations that weren't
understood,
not justified enough,
to dismiss.
The words
become inkblots on
clustered canvasses -
no space for meaning,
and no space for me
only for reserves of silence;
where chaos barrels
all used,
empty,
dripped
air.
I said:
you stole my heartbeats.
I lied.
I killed them myself.
Bronze trophy winner
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