Jan 14


I survive on pretending. 
I don't notice 
the empty seat on the bus; 
the faraway sound of lonely 
through my foggy bedroom window. 

I'm acquainted
with everything related to the dark, 
and nothing with his hands. 

I pinch myself in the hall
to keep from looking. Or crying. 
Or both. 

I forget half of myself
under the bed
and am reduced, instead, 
to writing in the backs of books. 

I'm smothering myself,

He is the thief
behind the broken glass
on the bathroom floor.