I’ll tell you
about the light

How it spills in
from my ice cube windows
and washes over my bed sheets

I’ll tell you of
the cruelties
I have shown myself
in its absence

How it peers through the shutters
in the morning
and casts itself over me,
with sympathy

How it unveils the room,
the same as always
but my body
so slightly different

How it illuminates the bags
under my eyes
the blankets on the floor,
and the marks
down my spine
my shaking hands
left there the night
before

And if you ask,
the light will tell you about me
who it knows me to be

On good mornings
with steady hands
and rested eyes
and its efforts
to keep me safe
on nights when
I can’t speak or
stand still
to fight

If you ask,
the light will tell you
to wake me up gently;
to show me
the blue of my veins
and remind me that
this morning
I am still alive