Poison

You told me I wasn't your cup of tea but you drank me anyway until I was empty inside, all the while telling me in your bitter voice how much you preferred coffee. Then you had the audacity to wonder why I burned your mouth. You treated me like a meal you didn't intend to finish while I choked on the poison you fed me from the bottle you labelled "love." You didn't kiss me with those ice lips but I could still feel them all over my skin like blades until I wanted to strip down to my bones and tear them apart, limb by limb. Like a jigsaw, you took me apart and scattered my pieces on the dusty floor of the house I built for us, and while I scrambled to pick them up you lit matches in the basement. You won the battle, but I won the war; for you setting that house—and me—ablaze taught me something. It taught me sufficient strength and rage to burn down entire cities; and most importantly, it taught me the soft courage not to, even when the city's veins flow with darkness beneath its deceiving lights.