I can’t remember what you were wearing in that tired inn,
what you smelled like, if either of us were sober enough to lock the door. 
But the pain I felt in my abdomen when we were splayed out laughing 
stabs me sometimes still. 

I read once that a mother skink will fight off predators until eventually, 
if the attacks are relentless, 
she’ll eat her own eggs. 

What if every other moment between us has been like that tired skink—
realizing she has no other choice than to eat her own happiness,
to destroy her love so that she might keep going alone?