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 
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.