he says,
name your torture
there are two giant
bruises on each thigh.
I am careful not to hit them
as I shift my hem.
he doesn’t even ask.
I spent most of my time
that late winter
searching.
what you would say, ugh,
combing through options,
in flux and in search of
weight.
and some guy to hold me.

it keeps no record of wrongs.
i’m saying it out loud
and I’m noticing my drawl
drawn out that’s how I know
he’s about to come round.
placed toffee on the other
mantle the way he likes
try not to ask about
whatever wayward lover
disentangled.
waste.
of time.
but here we are
marking everything
xxx with my fire finger
so I decide to
begin again:

love is patient.

I am trying not to get lost
in the mirror
which is a tall fucking
order. we are two inches from each
other and I can’t help but
melt when the cool breath
hits my left cheek.
I’m plucking at the dress.
he grabs my hand
to stop my ticking.
what’s that?
he says.

this is where the poem begins

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