I was the World You Crashed Into

You asked me if I loved you and I couldn't meet your eyes.
You asked me if I ever did and I couldn't lie - not about that.
Your bottom lip trembled like a city sitting on a fault line.
You said you wished I had burned in that fire,
the one that spit me out,
because you crashed into me like a meteorite,
and split into a million pieces.
I told you that sometimes I still cough up ashes;
sometimes I still feel the heat. 
You said you thought that we had prayer;
You thought that we had peace.
But you knew from the beginning that I never liked trains.
I didn't like the motion or the sound,
I only liked the tracks:
the chill of the metal in the morning and
the way it would kiss my skin.
You asked me about our bed, the sheets we stained together,
and I told you sleeping is always harder when
you're doing it alone
and water won't stop rushing without putting up a fight.
You didn't cry but I could tell you wanted to.
I showed you the dust on my fingertips and
let you see the blackness of my tongue. 
I'll never forget the look on your face or
the way you choked on my name like it was coal.
I didn't think you would beg me for gospel after all that.
I didn't think you would ask me to read out our eulogy,
but you showed me your broken rib and I couldn't turn away.
I had no more lies to tell you then,
no more truths to make,
and so I said the only thing I could: 
You cannot trust someone who is willing to break themselves;
You can never trust a storm, because we were made to destroy you.
I said:
You cannot become the world you crash into,
you can only fall apart,
and my hands were not made to own any part of you,
they were only made to hurt.