Unthread

I am peeling back the layers of you
that I wore like a coat for so long:
the tattoos we never got together
the look on my mother's face
when I showed her the ring you gave me
you are fading and I am fine

I am surviving, I am starting
to make promises to my own ears
and circling back through the sky
only this time you are not my falconer
I have found new ways to love myself
I no longer need you to do it for me

you waited for me to need you, I know
you did -- you wanted to darken my sun
to create an eclipse so that all I saw at dawn
was a shadow of what I'd been missing
but, in truth, you were never quite tall enough
to block out the daylight

and we existed in the dark places anyway
my blood on the bathroom rug and my loneliness
the times you left me alone, trying my best
to bury myself alive in the bedsheets
I suppose I should have seen you then
you were the life raft, but you were the storm

it has taken time to unthread your stitches in my skin
the words you wrote to keep me quiet, the names
I called myself because you taught me how
yes, you wanted me to need you, but I cannot
be small enough for you to hold any longer
I do not think I ever was