Autopsy of What We Called Love

I carved your memory out with trembling hands — still it bleeds, still it whispers, still it begs for resurrection in the dark. You were a religion I slit open just to see if God ever lived inside. He didn’t. Only rot, only echoes of promises maggots could recite by heart. We were a sin rehearsed too well, a ritual of breaking and pretending it was dance. Your heart — a mausoleum dressed in roses. Mine — a blade learning the language of pulse. Now every beat I own is a warning, every tear a toxin. I feed on the ghosts of what we were, and they scream when I smile. You said forever. I made it true — by killing everything that could feel it. ---