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he wept in my bed
half underneath the sheets
then a
slap
right across the jawline
bright red marks with a white
absence where his ring
hit my skin

he said he was afraid
and my brain told him
that no hurt would come from me
but my lips loved his
(scarred and uneven)
so i refused words
for another solace

–
i can replace her with another
pronoun
but
it doesn’t
(does not, i mean)
matter

–

even when he is awake
he told me he still dreams
of bright red cottages
and little girls with voices
that pierce the breaking
of deep blue waves

i told him even when sleep
escapes my hands
dreams come to me of empty
beds and childhood haunts

–

if that’s happiness
let it be easy

every breath is a fresh fruit
from her lips
and nothing tastes worse
than knowing my breath could
be mistaken as the same
and nothing is worse
than writing a poem
about love and only seeing
my own hands when i look down

somewhere a child
is throwing stones
and we’re catching them
with our mouths