Grief knocked on my ribs,

said nothing,

just stood there — dripping

like the mouth of a dog

that’s forgotten how to bark.

I opened the door.

Because 

My hands are god.

You already live here, 

I said.

The bruises in my stomach

remember your name

better than my own.

Sit down.

Don’t make a mess.

Don’t grow teeth.

Don’t start naming things.

Don’t ask about the blood on the floor —

it’s from the poem I bit in half

before it could say your name.

The curtains are breathing again.

The salt has learned my tongue.

Every room is a mouth now

and I keep walking into them

asking for mercy,

asking for knives,

asking what’s the difference anyway.

I buried a mirror under my bed

so I could watch myself leave.

I stitched a fire escape into my spine

but still climbed back in.

I was trying to be brave.

I was trying not to want you.

I was trying not to turn every bone

into a door you could close.

Stop whispering.

Stop pretending you don’t know

the color of my disaster.

It’s the same shade as your mouth.

And no—

you don’t get to turn the lights off

unless you promise

to stay in the dark with me.

I said sit down.

I said don’t grow teeth.

But you’re smiling.

And I’m bleeding.

And we both know

that’s how this always ends.

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