Coup de Grâce

Supposedly, all the great writers are birthed from heartbreak. Their stories spill from their aching ribcages like dandelions through cracked cement. Their bitter thoughts form dulcet script. They filter their pain through ink-and-tear-smudged pages, and they find something unexpectedly marvelous on the other side. They sculpt the ashes of their broken hearts into David.

But as I lie here⁠,

waiting for my blood to cool and trying fruitlessly to convince myself that it’s only the afterglow that makes me want to tell you I love you⁠⁠,

it’s clear I may never be one of the greats.