"My knees are bleeding again, and I don’t remember hitting the floor this time. You had a voice like red wine and I wanted you to stain every inch of my skin until my bones were too drunk to break. It turns out bones don’t work like that. They break anyway. I’m learning how the echoes of silence can pound against your head so loudly, you’ll mistake them for voices. And I am carving each one into walls that aren’t mine and slamming the doors to cabs and sobbing over coffee that tastes too bitter. Lately, every part of New York has been looking at me with sad eyes, as if to say ‘Baby, did you see the way the buildings fell here? Did you see the way they were born again? Don’t you dare cry over a boy who kissed you so hard you fell and scraped your knees. You are not an abandoned city. You are a home waiting to be rebuilt.’ This poem is for all the time I spent hating you. This poem is for all the ways I didn’t kiss you and all the ways I did. This poem is for all the love letters that I never gave you. This poem is for the parts of me I let bleed out. Here. I am giving it to you like a peace offering for the days I blamed you for the war in my head. And I know my hands might be shaking, but they aren’t yours to worry about anymore. I will learn the art of getting better. But I need you take this from me first"