Down the Aisle

I look at you down the aisle and I feel the blood drain from my face as it turns into hands that wrap around my chest while collecting into pools in my throat. I hope I don’t have to say anything. You’re draped in white and yellow, anything bright enough to shield you from the harsh colors of reality. Your light always complimented my dark, somehow leaving me warm, but exposed and burnt. I showed you exactly how each knife entered my back, some of the wounds still stitched and bloody, and you never once looked away. You embraced me, not like a victim but like a warrior, explaining how I have never battled a fair fight. I didn’t want you to see me. Our lives were never reflections but we learned from one another. Your room smells like nail polish and vanilla candles while mine is all smoke stained walls and ash covered side tables. We were never meant to last. I fumble to find my feet as I turn around before you lift your head. Part of me wants our eyes to meet, for you to be flooded with flashbacks of me, but I think ultimately it’s better for you to forget. I want you to never look back and wonder what could’ve been because I know in my heart you’ll find better.