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I held the letter in my hand.
It was waiting for me
when I arrived home.
I knew that he had left it for me,
one last gift or something
made to hurt. Perhaps
a little bit of both-
he was good at that.
His gifts came with strings,
his councel came a price,
and his company with
sacrifice.
In the letter,
he told me that he had
moved on, he had found
someone better than me.
It was like a knife.
with only one purpose.
I’d finally let him go.
He was like holding on to
brambles and thorns,
that took blood from me
as payment.
To get away from him,
I had fought against the
thorns he offered and hid
inside the forest,
in the branches of the trees
looking out until he
had gone away.
It was fitting that
his last words to me
cut like a sword.
That he sliced into me
as I had done to him.
I’d cut him out
to save myself.
I stood, holding the letter,
running a finger along
it’s sharp edges.
The cut was fast, like a blade.
The paper became bloody
in seconds,
the shape of trees formed
on the paper drawn in my ink.
The trees were shaped
like the forest I had hid inside.
The branches were moving
on the paper.
Intense heat ran through me.
It wasn’t anger, just the knowledge
that the forest was no longer safe.
It was done providing sanctuary.
My hand grew warm.
When the flame erupted,
in the middle of my palm,
I was not afraid.
The burning of the paper
like the crackling of leaves,
brief and quick.
The letter was simply
ashes now.
When I blew the ashes away,
the cut on my finger was gone.
I took the sword that he
had offered to me
and used it to
cut him
away.