she was over there
they say. I say. I’m not a writer. I write.
dim lamps behind me. that leafy smell.
signaling death. death always has a smell.
sitting beneath lights still makes me remember.
what made me
salt down my cheeks left side right side.
every time I finish. finish thoughts. complete memories. things
made up in my head.
I imagine you throwing me up against the wall. hollow sound of dry wall. hollow sound deep in my ribs in my skull in my pelvis.
walls that box us
I look up. I’m somewhere else. Back to my place among the dead
make the ground wet.
inside. you inside of me.
you scratched. still bleeding. do you remember. I drank too much. Sometimes I still do.