Nothing

For a moment, I believed
removing the dagger 
from my chest
would stop the pain.

Only the wound opened wider.
No hands to stitch it,
six long months,
and I’m still bleeding.

I don’t know how to forgive myself
for how long I’ve let it consume me,
I’ve let it feast on me
until I could no longer tell
where the pain ends
and I begin.

I killed you,
burned your body,
buried the remnants
of your bones deep beneath the ground,

and still, you remain.

Dostoyevsky was right.
Your worst sin is to destroy
and betray yourself
for nothing.