i killed her.

it was hate at first sight;

once i'd seen what she'd become, i knew that

i could not go on

with her breathing my air.

i killed her.

i burned her books and clothes and a+ essays

i burned her heart

or

at least

what was left of it.

i killed her yet in doing so,

she gave new life to me.

smoke rose from the tongues of flame

and i rose with it, above it, better than what we had been.

i killed her and never looked back

grateful that she had left me no scars

grateful that she had taught me what not to become

grateful that she had saved enough money for me to take the Amtrak west

where she'd be

reborn into Me.

my friend is like a pair of gloves.

we fit together perfectly

as if a tailor had measured, cut, and sewn

for me.

i took her everywhere.

over time, she became stained from the elements to which i had exposed her.

her seams left marks on my skin

which i would trace when we were apart.

the tailor noticed these changes in us

and claimed that

the perfect gloves had not been made to be a part

of the outside world.

i tried to keep her, but

my clenching fist caused her seams to burst

and away went all semblance of perfection.

my friend is a pair of gloves.

we had fit together perfectly

but now,

she unravels into the thread that will make someone else

and I know how to keep my own fingertips warm.