I wake myself up in the middle of the night
choking on poetry but
in the morning,
none of it sounds right.
I wanted to say something about
the soil erosion of my skin,
about your teeth like pick-axes
sharpening themselves on the backs
of my knees.
My sheets smell like someone else
but I can’t bring myself to wash them.
I don’t want him to disappear.
I wanted to say something about
the bone-dry valley of my breast,
about the arid well of my heart.
I take a shower and commit to the idea
of washing him off of me,
even though I want to tell all of the parts of him
still stuck to me
not to go.
But it’s too soon for begging.
I wanted to ask you if you had forgotten
how to beg,
or how to write
or how to stay still.
My chest grows and swells like the
sea,
a rapid constant movement.
Why has it taken me this long to compare
the pools of blood inside of me
to a monstrous body of water?
Why when it drowns me just
as easily,
when it is just as easy to spill,
when it is just as easy to drink,
when it is just as easy to dry up.