i.
Sometimes there are two
of us. Sometimes we are both
in the room. I am sitting still as a knife
and she is spinning
somewhere above me. A photograph
poked full of holes and hanging
from a string. A makeshift lure
I bite. Every time there is blood
in the air. Every time the light
bleeds through differently.
ii.
In the dark I drop my shape,
my knife. Clothes tossed
on the floor. A fairy circle
around the bed, attempted
protection. I’m always under
the covers when I undress.
I always wait until morning
to tidy up.
iii.
Greedy for giving, I spill
across the bed, a wound
old as hunger, festering.
Often, nausea. Often,
damp sheets in the morning.
I am not a woman, but god
doesn’t care. Pits me red, candy
pulp on the tile. The bathtub,
the morning their own violence. I hold
my own head underwater.
iv.
Every time I find another
way home.
I find another name to call
myself. I find
a familiar in a window. I smile
at my reflection.