I stanch internal hemorrhaging
by putting the inside outside;


       I'm finding out
               that ***
         without love
     is a pantomime--

               an open-hand slap.

Not an assault,
             but an insult.

         It's too hard to
shed the skin
       you left me in.
                  

                  Even now, I love you
               more than I care to admit
                     so I curl up
                   like burnt paper
          with surrogates
       and memories
   to keep me warm—


             but it still feels like infidelity.