to exist in the moment between the opening and closing of an eye–

not even breath will save you now, we drown in azure lightness
with honeycomb hearts that crumple at the slightest touch.
i have been here. i have been here before, at this place where
i am alone with myself and insane. my arms are starlit scars
that open again and again like mouths that will not shut up,
and the flesh of my abdomen swells with infection that i carry
as close to me as a baby, something i refuse to give up, for
without it, there is no meaning left in the lover’s touch so
soft against my face that pulls you in like a black hole–
you look at me and you are already doomed. there are teeth
that grind bone to powder here and lies as big as universes,
memory that has gone to ash but you can still wake and feel
the grit of it on your tongue. i was never more trapped than
when they said i could go. i was never more afraid than when
i had to name myself, explain myself for what i was and what
i had done. for how do you explain nothing, nothing, nothing.


the first impulse

the first impulse is to lie, to say it didn’t mean anything.
the second impulse is to hold it like a small mammal against
your chest, something to be protected, quicksilver heartbeat
and a fine hairsbreadth away from being true. the third impulse
tells you to run, cortisol in your body, your body that you let
be opened too quickly with a scalpel made of air and words.
but the first impulse is always to tell the truth about things
lighter than a feather on a scale, heavier than the blackest
swallowing doubt. then the second impulse is to say it meant
everything, everything that could be imbued with meaning when
the strawberry moon is resting on my shoulder. that makes the
third impulse one of collapse, of imminent sleep and dreams
where you tell me the truth but i don’t want to hear it.
the first impulse is to lie. no, the first impulse is to tell
the truth.
always go with your instinct.