covered in hot water & offense,
I was broken.
I wanted to skin myself to get rid
of your fingertips
but I didn’t want to be seen
either.
I sat cross-legged
under the shower
for twenty five minutes
to steam some of it out.
you would have said it was wasteful.
I go to bed at nine pm now

swathed in cheap sheets, tortured
with absent flowers, cold feet,
lamp on next to me and
wax all over the unfinished table
you were making
before I threw the chair you had finished.

it’s heavy; my tongue
flush with
little darted lullabies.
I coo, mourning,
from over here,
voice hushed and brusque
and barely noticeable,
like low tide,
like you,

your sudden
retreat.

“February”

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