fighter

once i sat down on the curb and told you, love, these things aren't what we're used to.

we're stop signs like angels circulating (don't breathe, don't move)-

bombshells like nuclear weapons. we're trying to spit out our bloody tongues on a monday,

before i ate these clear-cut glass words like they weren't my soul trying to slip out through the cracks in my bones.

one day they asked me

whether i could still fight?

i told them in return that i killed my darlings

and left them to rot like roadkill on the side of screaming oceans.

i blew a breath through my lungs like the edges of smoke reflected in mirrors, cried that i'm

still

a

fighter,

can't respond with bloodied-up fists but can't shut

my mouth 

when i'm supposed to

for wanting to throw my voice-box away, i reap the consequences

of being a murderer of passion-

love is what we do before we

die.