You had all these words
, and I left you, flailing
. You made a scene
. I couldn't help it. All this time I'd been aching and it hit me, it finally hit me, what was missing in my life. My skin
, my soul.
And you had had it.
I let you take it. I swore, I only slept 15 minutes...and six months after the morning after, I woke up dead, bleeding at last after all these months, after all this time, bled dry and shivering.
(Only some of the blood was smeared. Your sheets, on all these hands, because I didn't know what I was thinking at the time, and you let the ball drop, you let it go. This, too, you motherfucker, I can blame you for.)
I find it weary, my skin; blemished; it is not in the shape I left it. But it's mine again, and you will bear the silence until I find the voice to curse you for thieving, the curiosity to ask why you needed it to start.
I will grow back into this skin, warts and all. I missed it.