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divided I began slicing bits of myself off when I was nine. I would put the pieces in jars with some water and place them on the windowsill they would grow little roots and I had every intention of planting them in the right soil now I have years and scars and cabinets of jars because I never found soil that would do.
I place this truth in its own casket and stare at it as one stares at the body of someone you did not know.
Pretend that this is the very last time you'll be in this place, that if granted romantic reprieve you'll only ever have nights filled with inside jokes told under blankets on the couch you bought together, your first piece of real furniture, that you'll allow yourself to take your licks, to be in the wrong and to never bring it up again.
