Trying to write,
only feeling past ones filter through,
wondering if anything new sits under my tongue, crawls behind my ears,
shelters.

Shelters.

Yes, I think I shelter the wounded.

I love saving people, figure this is
the only way they could love me,
    as if their love for me was worth their life.

I have saved a lot,
and it flips as well.
    The one, my only for a year,
she sent me to the hospital when I was threatening to burst, to sicken the knife, to split the tongue.
I'll get over it.

Split my chest, sent me reeling, sent me screaming on the floor
as a white-blind result of affairs that are proven, saved in photographic form.

They are forgiven,
and I am free.