confessional poetry
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“You’re good at being you”Why does that make my heartStop
“You’re so extra”Why does that warm my cheeks
I’m garbage“At least you’re hot garbage”This shouldn’t tie my affections to you
make me,
unmake me,
unwind me like ribbon,
bury me with all that has died before—
half decayed children and barely formed youths
all me,
all not
let petals suture
I wish I was still afraid of the dark.
that I didn’t know what rests in swirling cloaks of black,
that I didn’t remember where the hard hip of the kitchen counter was,
or the swinging dress in the doorway.
