By | 1 August 2021

Often, it’s April in my chest, a tremor caught
just before I can say: fuck you
for every little thing you couldn’t do, for the sound
of jars losing their porcelain history on the floor,
the air, charged with your breath
and my breathlessness.
Rage is your only lullaby, and eventually I learned
all of the words. I can’t touch a man without
vibrating, the constant yearning
to knuckle things out of order that you swore
was love. No sense of tomorrow.
Once, in a room with all the noise
of an ailing city, I felt my own heart,
something alive inside me,
threatening to abandon the body that treated
it so poorly. Deep in the vein
of nowhere, I like to think there is a flash
stunning enough to blind me. That I can reach
to find an arm, knowing I can trust what I can touch.
No longer April, and the monsoons
would have reclaimed everything;
every sun that vanished after you,
the gaps in my palms every night I tried
to reach for yours,
and all of your sad wind.
Even us and the equal parts we hate the world.

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