When you ask me to describe fear I say my mother
smelling vodka on my breath at seventeen. I say loss
is trauma stealing an entire month from my memories.
Superheroes always have broken hearts and tragic
back stories so maybe I’m doing OK. In my dreams we
are brave enough to leap tall buildings in a single
bound and see through walls and also never lie to
Promise me this: when you finally leave me, you’ll
get creative. Tell me I was more disappointing than
your childhood. Send me your bloody ear with a letter
saying “I’ve got to Gogh. You’re making me crazy.”
I am hard to love but know this much: you are the
only thing I like doing more than writing poems.
later that night
i held an atlas in my lap
ran my fingers across the whole world
where does it hurt?