i. 

i finally threw out the rose that you gave me on our first thanksgiving. it had died after 2 months of sitting dormant in my kitchen, but you told me, 'keep it, i like the way it looks like that.' and you ran your loving hands through my hair the same way you touched its dry, brittle petals, careful not to break them

ii.

when those same hands wrapped around my wrists, leaving bruises in the shape of love notes , i convinced myself that maybe if you held on tight enough to feel my heartbeat, our pulses could sync up.

iii. 

as every anniversary passed, i felt myself losing little parts of me. every time your hand slipped into mine my fingers went numb, when you kissed my cheek i felt my face go pale. fearing every time i told you that i loved you it would be my last breath.

iv.

i used to think about self-harm as something i didn't do anymore. something i had moved on from in the days of hospital visits and iv hookups. i thought i knew what it looked like. it looked like pills on bathroom floors, google searches how to tie a noose, a shotgun to the head and a messily scrawled note, "i'm sorry." 

i never thought that it would be a valentine's day card.

i never thought i would accept it as the quiet inevitability of letting another person swallow you whole.

v.

loving you was the closest thing to suicide i've ever done.

vi.

and after you left. after the cheating, the lying, the tearful bargaining to stay.

i felt my heart break.

but at least it was beating

again.