Words Become Stories


Absconded: responsibility to others is a burden you refuse to bear; you sat on no throne and thus owed nothing to the world you existed within.

Banalities: to fix the foundation of the every day, you mixed my blood and my sweat, and used the resulting substance like caulk to fill the holes.

Contusions: you left bruises deep enough to penetrate the bone.

Desire: yearning for existence, you demonstrated, was a sin greater than lust.


Stay, you said, in response to my need to leave. I couldn’t bear the limbo I occupied, or the shape my story took in your hands (the narrative bent like a coat hanger so you could bury it deep within the hollow space in me).


When I chose me, you turned to me a face as hard as stone. And so I returned my voice from your mouth with a written curse and set our history ablaze.

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