He called me worthless before fucking me bare.

I squeezed my eyes shut and thought of your face;

a watercolor painting in the dappled light.

Things shouldn't have ended like this.

But there are things that end up being

the end of everything you've built up so far.

A bird squeaked somewhere outside,

perhaps from the willow tree, whispering

"I love you" to the air. Or maybe it's hunger.

The minutes he pulls my head closer,

a tear slips down my left cheek. 

The sky looks so small from here,

a coin pressed between finger and thumb.

My room looks like a fucking palace,

walls turning dusty pink in the afterglow.

You sent me an e-mail last night.

Said that you and Helen have made up.

I imagine you two snuggling in one corner

of the couch. His fingers fist around my hair

and tugs it just enough for another tear to slip.

Some days, it feels so good 

not to feel good at all.

Sorry, love, I'm running away from home.

The voices won't stop scratching at my skull.

Air bruises my lungs, an open wound.

It's so cold down here, I wish you

had something to say before I left.

The porch light dims,

the bird stops crying,

his name slips out of my mouth,

your face blurs in a pool of white light.