I’ve told the story of us so many times
it no longer sounds like truth.
The words have wilted,
petals curling inward
from too much sun.
Our love did not fade;
it turned to a blade instead,
cutting through the hands
that once tried to hold it.
Now I move carefully,
even through kindness,
as if every touch
remembers the sting.
I still find pieces of you
in my silence,
sharp enough
to draw blood
from memory.