I’m sorry for speaking ill
Of the living. I’m sorry for leaving
The door wide open
While the children slept.
I’m sorry I ran to the lighthouse
Where every painting pointed
I’m sorry for whispering
Descending numbers into a rose bush
(I had to prove I was real)

I’m sorry, barefoot
With the dogs
And the wild boar.
Barely perching.
(I knew then, something held me)
And that time
In the room
With the ***** wallpaper. How
The world ended right there
(Behind my eyes).

So you take it.
This with no name
This with the prowl in its eyes.
Am I your ram? Your grand offering?
I carry a hell
Behind each eyelid
And a deep knowing
I refuse to name.