Leaving 12

The part of me that hopes
for a life with you
is dying hard.
Screaming for help.
Gouging at my eyes
as I try to strangle it.
Holding on to the ledge
as I chop its fingers off
one by one.
Clinging to the door frame of the plane.
Spitting out the poison.
Holding its breath in the submerged car
and then finding an airpocket
and then slicing its arms to the bone
battering out the windows.
It will die. It is doomed.
But it will be slow, and messy,
and cost me much.

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