There were days I wrote you
out, dropped you like a feather
and ran. I’d hoped to leave you
behind me, but you were my
favorite quill. The very worst
of my Hell.

I always come back for you,
to dip you in the murky eyed
ink called memory. Even now,
I write your name across the
breadth of these wrists, hoping
to set free all this bitterness.

Some say I keep your ghost
alive in letters left by your
graveside, but this ink
reminds me why I left home—
to exorcise you and them
from my bones.