I took two years to leave him and eight months
to set fire to his painting
in a bathtub in Chicago.
It was of a phoenix rising,
an emblem of me, budding from his strength —
This is you, baby.
My bathtub bonfire disciplined itself against white porcelain,
like the way his hand met my cheekbone —
No one will love you like I do.
I turned on the shower.
I think I’ve got it from here.
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