Let the letting go.
You are not the kind. I knew.
Not kind, unselfish, deserving.
You required unwinding, and the ask
to unravel bindings
crusted by burst blisters
from the years’ angry messes.
Tongueing your salt-rimmed wounds,
you walk away.
Taking to my own skin
with nails and teeth
and sharps that fit my grasp;
blood-letting humors that smell of you
marinated in muddled strawberries;
you, with a durian-fragrant tarred and toxic taste.