You are a woman.  
Skin and bones, veins and nerves, hair and sweat.  
You are not made of metaphors.  
Not apologies, not excuses.

Deciding how many bites is too many,  
how much space she deserves to occupy.

I want her back so bad...
I leave the door unlocked.  
I leave the lights on. 

Maybe love stays, maybe love can’t.  
Maybe love shouldn’t.


Do not regret this. 
 Do not turn red.   
When your mother hits you,   
do not strike back.

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