Shrapnel
I left the door open that day because I wanted them to come in at night and clean up the mess that my words had cleaved on the brain of the person I used to think I loved. Sleeping felt lonelier that day, as though the very little that I used to hold so dear to me had slipped through my fingers, like phlegm, and left me there alone in mind and in the subtle warmth that woul dhave otherwise emanated from beside me. Frost crackled in the air, making it seem like a passageway clouded by thorns that you must push through to escape the maze you were born in. I do not understand why the things I said I said then, and why understanding never seems comfortable with the way I try to house and feed it.
That night, they did come in, I know because I heard their little feet clamber through the gap in the door, and smelt their burning faces as they walked into the living room, the carpet scattered with all the ash that represents their work. I felt the air turn tepid and thick as the ash curled its way around what used to be a house, and I found myself regretting not locking the door.
I heard them leave some time later at night, and lay there for hours asking myself about what had made me do such a thing. Feeling like the future was smothering me in its gentle blanket of ambiguity and darkness. I heard them close the door a few minutes after I thought that they had left, and this scared me.
That morning, when I found the shrapnel of my ambition, I cried for many hours. Many hours of tears from my brain and my heart and my eyes. Stickly mucus covering my face, I thought about them and found myself almost saddened by the things I had made them do. I cleaned up the ash and scrubbed the viscera from the carpet and went to make my bed.