Dear Heather,

 

I dream about you still. I wish

That I didn't, but it is always you. You

And your smile, you and your grimace.

You and your hands.

Hands like evergreen trees and sweet apple rot.

Hands that swallow me up.

 

I cannot defend myself. the knife I carry is all

Blade and no handle. To hurt you I must hurt 

Myself. The knife you carry is not a knife at all,

But an open palm, a curled fist.

The touch of your spread fingers blossoms over

My body and

Burns.

Pieces of me are turned to ash in the heat of it. I am

Not the same girl I was when we met.

 

My mouth is still bitter from the taste of a 

Scream swallowed down over

And over. You ask what I want.

A threat disguised as a kindness.

I am silent. I will cry later, in my bed

In my shower, in the mirror of my best friend's eyes.

 

You haunt me in a thousand ways. I dream 

About you. This does not mean that I want

You. I do not forgive you. I do not have to.

I do not forgive your hands.

 

Without gratitude,

 Miranda Schindler