defenestration

i can't breathe unless i have an exit plan. i have never been less than one foot out the door, windows propped open and hammer in hand. your arms around me have always been somewhere between a comfort and a rope— tethered and tied down mean the same thing most days, and my feet are halfway off the ground for my own self-defenestration before anyone can think to grab my hand and ask me: stay, stay, stay, stay until morning— as the sun is the villian in every heart-wrenching aubade, i cannot stand to see myself in the soft light of morning, when the dawn makes us honest and becoming honest makes us vulnerable. no, this is all wrong. i do nothing by halves and i have never been one foot out the door. instead, i have hung by the entrance like a starving wolf, sharp claws and fangs biting into soft flesh in the rush to leave— all bruises I have left on your neck and collarbones, bleeding softly under skin are reminders that i too shall fade like footprints in winter snow. a defense of myself: i am the only one who can break my own heart so I shatter it like a wine glass on a tile floor, like a window in a riot. i have been nothing but a jewel thief, a phantom— you have only ever loved a ghost. when the draft comes in, cold wind blowing through the cracks around the door, it feels just like a memory of my touch.