8

i curled into the railing,
his words turned into whips,
the voice i knew contorted into snarling.

i walked through the shattered glass
to my car carrying two letters.
one for now, he said, and one for later.

now he called me cunt. bitch. whore.

later, states away, he said he could not live without me.
see you on the other side.

since then i have hunted
for other bodies to make my skin sing,
for other minds to feed my fires,

and after years believing
uncontrollable
meant real

i have learned
to look for those who
can
live without me,
who, for a little while,
choose
not to.