there are better ways to love
but this is the one we know.
there are softer stories to tell
but this one is the loudest.
if you love me, it’s in a way
that my parents can’t look at.
in my dreams, my hair falls out
in fistfuls. Mama says this is a good thing,
this is a sign of things to come, this is tension
peeling itself from my body and I believe her
because I am used to the way my healing smells
of death. an old song plays on the radio and I throw it
across the room. this is not grace, this is the truth.
that’s what you asked for but when you asked,
you expected something that could fit in the palm
of your hand and here I am, standing on your doorstep
with overflowing boxes. and there you are, looking for
the quietest way to close the door.