I don’t remember the pain

But rather the panic that set like an unhealed fracture.

The walls are pretty thin—

I hear a commotion downstairs.

Talk of scars that linger; noxious, sulfurous fumes reeking of hidden remains.

I’m an archaeologist of ancient history,

Excavating a plethora of suppressed emotions.

I’d sooner walk over a sidewalk paved with broken glass

Than open Pandora’s box.

My secrets are a pot simmering on the stovetop,

Turning the knob to the highest heat with little preparation,

It boils over—

Steaming, bubbling truths that burn through every layer of my skin until I am a bag of bones and seared meat.

Indistinguishable from roadkill.

The final nail in my coffin?

Whatever poignancy I possessed fell on deaf ears.

Babbling brook overflowing from my ramblings of madness.

Shoelace noose for falling head over heels for the lies you spewed to get me to let my guard down.

I showed you the innermost parts of myself

And only saw you from behind as you walked away.

How could you just walk away?