When you want to hurt me, you know what words to use when you challenge the sanctity of moments behind us or question aloud if this thing or that thing would be the last of its species in the museum of our memories- It makes me feel less, like our artifacts rise from the dead as shrunken, twisted versions of themselves, break the glass around their exhibits, and hold me against the wall of the exit (I will not leave) to carve my ribs with their obsidian daggers and make toy versions of me. If they only knew that part of me wonders where my heart is too, and if the toy versions of me have pieces of it. I thought I left it with you but how could I? I never left. You held my hand as the glass was breaking. You too felt their obsidian daggers because they have no handles and cut both ways. And when we wake up the next morning, the pools of our blood gone and the artifacts back to their slumber, I see you sleeping and I know even against the many ancient hands you kept my one heart safe, and I tucked yours in the room they made behind my ribcage. Even at your worst, you're the best I have know. Your shadow does not scare me. I stare into her. She's smaller than you and walks more cautiously, a child forgotten in a different kind of museum with far more evil creatures than artifacts and far sharper daggers than obsidian. I see her, all of her, and she doesn't scare me because the part of me that knows her knows you. And if you didn't know me so well, you would have used different words, and I would have more ribs. And in some ways, that would have hurt worse.