At night, the thing that sees me in all this
rawness is the forgiveness I do not lend

myself. Maybe I can swallow the pain
and build a new mouth from it and

                         maybe I’ll miss it, too.

I think of the whispers shaped in the
curl of our bodies and I think of the pants

that come in between. At night, we learn
to rack our breaths and feed a name

to the tired madness that lulls us to sleep—
nurtured and cradled in a song only we

know how to inhale. I haven’t written
in months and have a scar on my left

arm that I kiss when I go to sleep. Some-
times the days bloom and sometimes

the words nest themselves in a pool of blood
and sometimes there’s gasps where even

God himself could never fit. I think of
beauty as a riot against myself and all

that I do not want to be but that I am.
I cannot look at photos because there

are truths too incomplete to choke on.
But, in the morning, like oil-smeared yellow,

the sun rises.