The door wouldn’t budge. They were my keys, but they just...

The door wouldn’t budge. They were my keys, but they just didn’t seem to fit. I have always been fascinated with nouns, not verbs. You were all about verbs, action, and I was comforted by nouns. You make a scene, a production, light a candle, watch it blast into a fire. And I stand there, simply in awe of the state of being here, watching as the flames eat us both alive. 

Speed (noun). The adrenaline that comes from speeding past time, past all logic. Not speed (verb), to speed past you, watching your jaw drop, your unkempt hair making a statement, the wind echoing the loss. Does the wind have a say, too? It seems to mock the sheer panic. 

Panic (verb). To rush, to destroy you. To destroy the other. To feel your heart exploding, refusing to be tamed. But what cannot be tamed? 

Kill (verb). One blow, one quick and smooth action. The arteries you recognize. The sputtering dialogue, the last words. 

When I was seven, the closest person to me put out their cigarette on my flesh. The trauma comes back. 

Trauma (noun). All I have to dissect. No bodies to probe. The mind screams.