sometimes i wake up and think that i’m you. if i stay still, if i don’t speak, there’s no difference. but then i speak, and i move, and he smiles.
i sit at the mirror, and look at your face. i think about you slashing your wrists, tip my head back. the hair he combs is your hair. i wonder if he misses the colour of my eyes.
i don’t think he thinks about it — about you. for him, having me here is a miracle, he’s never going to question it.
but i do.
what did you think i would be like? you gave me these hands to kill your enemies, but now they are the hands that i hold his with.
