1.
it’s a monday night when your ma first tells you
that she never wanted to raise you catholic
and she’s sorry you had a breakdown
at the soft-mouthed age of twelve
but you have to understand
life is more complicated
than crooked teeth
and even tones

2.
on this day, in 2008: the sky was red
and you were very lonely

3.
your uncle smells of sweat and scotch and little secrets
the sun is shining and your blood swirls
a sea of brown, bubbling, tense
you cut your meat quietly
and
later,
throw up in the bathroom
with everything golden
everything burnt

4.
“you’re kidding,” she says,
ashy and freckled and too good to last,
and outside the rain falls
static in your chest
you say “no, really;”
her teeth have a gap
and you can feel
the smoke
stitched
into her breath
and

5.
“what?”

6.
there are flowers on your windowsill
in medias res: dying, never dead
and your bed is always cold
and your shoes don’t fit
and it’s alright to miss
the tears, if you want
but you don’t

7.
“oh.”