There are rocks in my throat,
small with jagged edges.
They are making a game
of churning the food in my stomach
and taunting it to come back up.
“None shall pass.”
is what they say to the oxygen molecules
trying to find my lungs.
They are begging me not to forget
the feeling of your hands on my skin.
They sing songs debating who’s fault it is
as I press my palms to my forearms,
throw out anything sharp or pointy,
and swallow the sobs
that only remind me of you.
“He will come back.” is what they scream
“He will bring a gun and this time
he will finish what he started.”
as I turn the lights out at night
There are rocks in my throat
and they want me to keep hurting,
but they don’t know me
or the fire I breathe
when my wounds are ready to heal.