Today I said a prayer until my cuticles were gone and so was the hour.
I’ve ripped my intentions down to attention, but even with the best glue, my confessions are shred with humor and blame.
So I pierced my lips with a keyless lock, and it has been effective, but when even the tiniest speck of trust floats on the shackle, my tongue flops out and I wake up at an altar.
Blood-stained hands aren’t an idiosyncrasy. Disinfectants can’t clean seats of infertility.
I don’t like how my palms turn bright red under the faucet or how the man under my bed is only there when I have the energy to make sure he’s gone.
I don’t like how I bury my head between my right shoulder and the window when I break character in the car.
But I especially don’t like how you refuse to take me gently.
I’ve had to teach myself apathy to gain some control yet I can’t seem to shrug you off.
My flesh is unsewn for you, the stench of infected gore burns your nostrils and you open a window.
I’ve spoken of how crawling out of the abyss would be nearly impossible when the light died.
Now here I am on a ledge that I’ve cartwheeled on for 2 years, but lived on forever, and I’ve sat down and swung my legs over. I would scream but the altitude has taken the breath from my lungs.
I stroke my eyebrows and cup my cheeks when I cry, you question me with daggers and they’re stapling me to the floor of my sealed room.
If I fade off in this way, my body tossed on the carpet and a box pushed against the door, you’d spend the first day of my absence coexisting with the dead silence that booms from the end of the hall. On the second day, you’d yell my name, knock on the door, and call my phone until two days later when you hesitantly push the door open.
Please, take me gently.