Please kiss your knuckles before you swing. It’ll ease the pressure. I can’t fight how I used to, so throw the first punch and teach me how to kill. These things creep up like a fever- aching in your bones until you finally sweat it out.

I’m the anxious sinner and you’re the one who needs permission to move on, right? Rewrite every page until you’re the hero. Fuck over the plot and every other character- make them feel sorry for you. Make them weak. Make them repent. Damn every part that isn’t true. Your gutting the meaning of friendship as the words drip off your tongue like a lie. Licking the blood off your teeth. Bandaging knuckles. Trying to rehearse the way you heal so that you can perfect the act. It’s all an act. It’s all an act. It’s all a fucking act.

But my version of finality is louder- I say burn the entire thing down. Eat the embers. Make snow angels in the ashes. Let the smoldering pieces keep you warm. Light a path with kerosine as I leave. Slam the door louder than your screams. Because when I walk away, I fucking burn the place down. And when you throw that swing, I won’t even flinch. AMT