phoenix
i killed her.
it was hate at first sight;
once i'd seen what she'd become, i knew that
i could not go on
with her breathing my air.
i killed her.
i burned her books and clothes and a+ essays
i burned her heart
or
at least
what was left of it.
i killed her yet in doing so,
she gave new life to me.
smoke rose from the tongues of flame
and i rose with it, above it, better than what we had been.
i killed her and never looked back
grateful that she had left me no scars
grateful that she had taught me what not to become
grateful that she had saved enough money for me to take the Amtrak west
where she'd be
reborn into Me.
digitalis
my friend is like a pair of gloves.
we fit together perfectly
as if a tailor had measured, cut, and sewn
for me.
i took her everywhere.
over time, she became stained from the elements to which i had exposed her.
her seams left marks on my skin
which i would trace when we were apart.
the tailor noticed these changes in us
and claimed that
the perfect gloves had not been made to be a part
of the outside world.
i tried to keep her, but
my clenching fist caused her seams to burst
and away went all semblance of perfection.
my friend is a pair of gloves.
we had fit together perfectly
but now,
she unravels into the thread that will make someone else
and I know how to keep my own fingertips warm.