There is a place
in you
that needs a name
but you're an absolute beginner
at naming things.
Centred in this pathos, I've never known

whether to create stillness or bitter passion.
In this, there is a sacrifice,
something to see through to the end.

The openness I sometimes extract
can break me down.
Is it better
to find a way to say it?
Would it be better to hang for it

or to forget
how the fig is fertilised?
In its sweetness,
to forget
the distaste of undermining friendship.
I have stretched myself into the past.

I have stretched my body
to see the places it could end.
Vein bubbles
from where it started,
wet bloodgasps;
sorry smear of a poem

they write your name next to.
History repeats, all that's left;
neutrality at the cost of
a better passion,
and the count of
how many ribs you have and how many you've lost.

I abuse my fingers
and still expect them to carry me through.
There's always a way
to see trauma as something to crawl into.