Timestamp

I could sleep and wake up
and you might be here
I could sleep and wake up
and you may not
either way the sleep will be hopeful
I’ll hug myself like a girl
and touch the sign on my wrist
and try not to wait for the bed springs to quake.

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Sick

Maybe it’s me
who drags my own sobbing body
who strings it up on that far-fetched branch
who watches from the foot of the tree
as I choke on that morning’s epiphany

Finger-paint the word across my own torso
red slur
‘Don’t talk to yourself that way,’ she says
‘It makes me so angry to hear you talk to yourself that way.’

But I still say it to myself in secret:
’You’re sick
and you’ll never make it out of your head alive.’

Realizations from Day 2

I loved like a little girl
too fast and too hard
too open-armed
crush my head beneath his chin
cradled violent
but he’s not a boy
and you can’t love him like he’s a boy
you can’t love him as a girl
you must love him as a woman
and a woman waits
she moves in maybes
she hesitates
she does not come before she is invited
she does not stay passed his liking
she does not cradle
she isn’t violent
she does not say it —
not even if  it’s true.