to the stars who listen: poetry

44. ashes to blaze

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 whilst I choked on the poison you fed me from the bottle you labelled 'love'. you never kissed me with those ice lips but I could feel them all over my skin like blades until I wanted to strip down to my bones and tear them apart. like a jigsaw you took me apart piece by piece and scattered them 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 when I knew you I couldn't douse the fire you ignited inside me, the fire with which you turned me to ashes. now, I am composed of ash and smoke. and maybe 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 softness and the courage not to, even when the city's veins flow with darkness beneath its deceiving lights.