“Not guilty.”

You pled, and I bled.

The jury wouldn’t look

at the knife

you left stuck.

I begged them to see

the hole in my chest

that you clumsily filled with ash

as if it could replace a beating heart.

But they closed their eyes when you asked them,

“How can you believe that wound is real?

It’s impossible to see

what only she can feel.”

The jury rendered a verdict;

“Insanity”, the foreman said,

pointing at me.

It didn’t matter I wasn’t on trial.

You killed me, but still

they found you “not guilty”

only because

I didn’t

die.