Your 4-month-old kitten got stuck in the hollowed out tree
Half a mile into the woods behind your home
The one where you used to stash old
Board games and magazines
He died on top of a stack of TV guides
Overnight

You get used to leaving more things unsaid
With each appraisal of the stones you
Mean to leave unturned
How the quiet moments in the margins of the night
Dry up in reverse burgeoning
And you fear them shriveling to show
The insulation beneath;
You wish you were more cynical of the outside world,
And more trusting of those close to you.
Aside from the hope you stockpile
In hidden shrines between your synapses,
Silence invites nothing worth fearing
And organic silence cradles the crumpled-up papers
Disproven hypotheses and stories from another life

Your mother left the soup on low
As long as it took you to return,
Thistles hanging from your jeans and forearms.
You are not yourself, and never have been.

You want to pull off the same trick now,
Keep the burner going long enough so that
The quiet moments carry, the soup stays
Warm enough for both of you enjoy.

The loose-leaf lectures remain unnecessary.
You wrote a eulogy that day, but never recited it.
The tree continued to grow.

You will leave this place soon,
This haven of brick and asphalt
And have decided to make
One more mistake before you depart.

In the five o’clock air,
With the streetlights off duty,
The mist struggles to mingle with the
Sweat-drenched clothes that cling to
Your sweat-drenched body

You have told them
That you’re not sure if this
Means anything,
Not sure if you’re looking for
The same things
They will take it as a challenge
And mistake you for knowing what
You’re talking about.

But you are so comfortable here,
Feet on the asphalt,
Groggy with lust and
Unwilling to sleep in the beds of
Future lovers
As if four years could make anyone
Savor the aftermath of a
Future disaster

You will leave this place soon,
This place you are so comfortable with,
This place where the mistakes you make
Don't linger into the waning evenings
But crash hard against the brick
And shatter in the five o'clock air.

Trace the seams of your body for loose strings.
Pay attention to the places the unraveling has started
Again, to the places where you’re making the same mistakes.
When you’re alone, smoke endlessly into the night
And reset the topography of your heart
With mortar shells and ******.
Repeat this process as needed.
(You’re going to need it.)

There is an immutable emotion that all of the
Displaced strata and debris only serves to cover.
In the past year, you have found yourself
A lot dirtier. Yet you don’t bother to excavate,
Expecting to still recognize that glow
When it comes bursting back through the earth.

I feel the heat of your shoulder bleeding into mine. We are laying in the grass. No- we are laying in my bed. No- your bed. The TV is on. You fell asleep in my lap playing video games. I'm wearing red lipstick. Moments earlier, I arched my back like a kitten and took a picture of us sprawled over one another. You weren't looking. My lipstick is red. My shirt is red. My skirt has flowers. Your hair is bleached on the top. I peel the blankets from us and now it's grown out, curving over your forehead in a w. You're wearing all these pukka shell and wooden necklaces. I don't know what gave you the idea. It doesn't match. I love you. I love you so much I giggle just tracing the curve of your nose. We watch YouTube videos slowed down and laugh until we fall asleep, your hip bones pressed into the small of my back. I open my eyes and we're back in 2015. We're eating pizza, but not too much, because your stomach problems are just beginning. You accidentally say you love me back when we part at sunset. The gazebo is in the background. It's always in the background. I walk away and find myself back at your door. You struggle with the key for a moment. We just got off the bus. You couldn't drive yet. I saw your dog, pet her on the top of her head, nose turned away from her rotting teeth. Your bird sings when we walk away and we laugh at how he hates us. I stop laughing and he's dead. Your mom threw him away. You were more heartbroken than you told your friends while you laughed in the library. I shut the door behind me and you're shaking your head no a year later, me asking if we can talk, last weeks tears prickling my mind.  You say you'll think about it. You don't. I do.

the faint lines of regret
etched upon this world when
my name was first uttered
with the connotation of a swear
disgust radiates from bleeding mouths
children of bad parents become
bad children