In the Snow

When were you planning on leaving?
I've already gone.
I could not leave quietly.
I kicked down
the door, the barrier
between you and me.
I kicked in
your front teeth.
I could not leave quietly.
The stories you tell yourself
are loud. They rattle my ear drums.
Do stories expire?
Do they become frail and tired?
Do they become lies?
I've already gone
and told myself the truth,
that I can be brave
and have my own stories,
that I can plan on leaving
at any time, my footsteps
making a pattern
in the snow.