I hate knowing that I am a piece of you. That somewhere, somehow, there is a connection. Paper thin, or like thread.

It binds us together in ways I wish it didn’t. Like the way you hold the handle of a spoon or open car doors, the simple things.

But there is more. When you peel the potatoes, you think of me. Just as I picture your face in him, in her, in my decisions.

We are threaded by single moments.
By strands, by spider-sewn silk so strong even the stealthiest bugs get caught. Trapped. I am suffocated by what we believed was love. We, both you and I. We were tricked into thinking that we would be happy. That we could forgive.

But threads tie together, knot, rub raw.
And there will always be fragments
of you buried deep in my skin.


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