If you were going to wreck me,
you should’ve finished the job.
Left me in flames,
not just smoldering with your fingerprints.
You touched me like you owned me
and left me like a receipt you didn’t want to claim.
You had me —
honest, trembling,
the whole trembling cathedral of me
laid bare at your altar.
And you pissed on the pews.
Don’t you dare call that love.
You said I was too much —
too loud, too soft, too everything.
But really,
I was just too alive
for someone who only ever offered half a pulse.
You wanted a girl who would stay
after the bruises.
Smile through the gaslight.
Beg with grace.
You wanted obedience, not love.
A mirror, not a woman.
A grave to bury your guilt in.
Well.
I hope you rot
in every poem I write
with your name scrawled beneath the venom.
I hope every girl after me
smells the smoke
and runs.