A Letter To Myself: No More Lighting Myself On Fire To Keep You Warm
honey, you are not responsible for the skeletons hidden in his closet.
rinse. repeat.
you are not responsible for the bones threatening to spill out.
he can call you a doll and watch your cheeks redden,
but honey,
you are only a doll because he has taken hold of your strings.
you are not his marionette doll,
not a circus attraction
with his name on the door.
honey, he is not the ringleader.
has no one told you, you aren’t
responsible for taking apart his ribcage and fitting yourself beside his heart;
that you are not responsible for the emptiness you find there.
he can kiss you sweetly and fill you with butterflies,
but no one told you that butterflies turn into bees.
and honey, more often than not,
they sting.
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