1
there is something mindlessly vicious about mornings alone.
the birds call for each other as the sun rises and it’s all very
lonely, isn’t it?
the pomegranate is beautiful but no less sour for it,
the clouds are a light orange.
it still stings.
you sleep in the bed next to me and i have loved nothing like i love you,
except maybe my cat, but that’s different
i think,
or maybe my dog, or our three rats-
is it possible to be in love with different things at once?
i’m still deciding- give me another 20 years to figure it out.
my mother always told me i had so much love 
bouncing around in my chest that it was hard to keep still,
everything was-slash-is so beautiful that i couldn’t sit in one place,
affection bursting out of me from the seams.
maybe that’s true, maybe that’s just ADHD,
but does it matter? i’m not sure
what does matter:
the way my cat slept with me last night,
curled up between my chest and the edge of the bed,
rumbling softly in the moonlight.
reminds me that she loves me with soft eyes 
and the press of her perfect forehead against my hand.
i scratch under her chin and she purrs.
i lie there,
aching,
and try to sleep.

2
i believe in a past life i was a hermit
living on a wild cliff above the sea.
i spoke to only the animals i cared for and
my own reflection.
this makes sense to me-
why else would i choke on words so easily?
why else would they stick to the roof of my mouth and 
refuse to come out?
instead i think the words i want to say and then keep them inside-
little secrets
only i am allowed to know.
have you thought of a dam yet?
is it overflowing? water
streaming down the sides? throwing itself over the 
edge? dashed on the rocks below?
yeah.
yeah i think that fits, too.
bottles shatter in my chest only to be contained 
by another, larger bottle,
so on and so forth,
until my chest is fit to explode.
i get a gift for a friend, and it doesn’t work.
this feels like a metaphor for something
but i don’t know what yet.
i’m still working on that part.

3
something that always bothered me was,
like,
who allowed this to happen?
was it my mother? meaning well but hurting me anyway?
was it my father? was it G*d?
i don’t think we’ll talk about either of them
(and yes, i understand that this is a cop out).
the pinecone brings life and oxygen
but it stabs my hand when i cradle it.
life always finds a way, yes,
but could it maybe hurt just a little less?