I.

My bedroom is a furnace.

The heater still feels like your breath on my neck,

the air crawls like an insect;

you don't belong on my skin.

I don't know what you were looking for,

but I don't think you found it here.

There's nothing left here.

Pluck out the seams in my sides

that hold me together like a ragdoll.

Some fighter I am.

 

II.

My bedroom is a centrifuge,

it's the motion pinning me down when I try to rise.

There's a word stuck at the back of my throat,

two-letter savior,

sandpaper tongue,

mouth like quicksand.

I don't have the words anymore.

I'll never have the words again.

 

III.

I am two days past my bedtime.

I am three days late for dinner.

Cradle this wretched fault to my chest like an unwanted child,

give it nothing but my name scraped from my throat,

like it doesn't fit me anymore.

My name like bile against my tongue,

worthless letters for a worthless girl.

I never asked for an apology.

I'd never ask for an apology.

 

IV.

I give you two pages.

Two pages,

load my fist with that fault,

fuck you.

Fuck you for my weakness.

Fuck you for my silence.

Fuck you for my blame.

Two pages,

written in a voice like dying children

crying out for medication,

sinners praying for salvation,

crescendo of desperation,

shatter me,

shatter me.

 

Thank you.

Goodnight.

I'm sorry.