Fish

Some nights, I dream I’m a fish.

Not swimming—just flattened against the cutting board.

Scales flaking. My eyes stay open.

The wood remembers.

Some nights, I am the knife wondering why it's wet. My blade remains sharp, useless without the hand.

She called it devotion. Said I should be grateful that someone like her even remembered my name.

Funny enough – she never actually used it.

Just you.

I wasn’t in love. I wasn’t even present. I was just… obedient.

Obedient in the way stray dogs are when they forget the sound of their own bark.

I told myself that it wasn’t that bad, that I’ve been through worse.

But surviving wasn’t the point.

I think I started to rot in that room.

She left lipstick on my collar and bruises on my memory. Neither of them washed out despite me scrubbing until I bled.

I folded my soul until it sparked. Small enough to hide. Small enough to burn without noise. I lit it for her.

She laughed. Said the smoke made her dizzy.

I watched myself burn from somewhere above the ceiling, where feelings couldn’t reach me. Where experience stopped.

The fire learned to live without me. The dream kept going.

Now when I wake up I still taste metal. I still wait for the hand.