content warning: domestic abuse
i still listen to "our song"
but now, all these years later
i don't think of how your vodka kissed cherry lips tasted
i don't think of when we woke up still tipsy in your treehouse
i don't think of that girl i loved
i think about how holding your hair back became reflex
i think about washing my blood out of your carpet, after you hit me the second time
i think about how i learned to ignore all the other boys
one time,
hunched over between your parents parked cars,
match in hand,
you told me not to play with fire,
and i can't think of a better metaphor than that