Who even are you anymore?
Hiding under small orange
bottles are letters from a former
life, a former name and address
in former envelopes and former
handwriting, former pen
smudges and former doodles
on the folds. Save yourself.
Save yourself first.

Swipe, snap, flint on stone
to make sparks that make
flame that make fires that
make light and heat and
allow drawing of deeper
features than really exist
with shadows moving in
erratic fashions, swinging
back and forth between
the you that was farther
from death and the you
that is much, much closer.

Giving is hard. Taking
is the easiest thing you
can do so long as you
can run fast enough to
escape the guilt that is
falling on you like trees
in a northwestern forest
with gravel crunching
sound of logging trucks
not too distant grinding
their way up small roads
and wind blowing through
trees that are deceptively
deciduous and shaking.

I'm judging you for
just about everything.
I am hard like feverish
breaths in a sweaty
freezing bedroom that
belonged to someone
else who bled in all the
corners and licked all
the walls and is reaching
out from the breathless
past to steal yours too.

It's just you and me
here, you can tell me
anything, I promise I
will hold all your secrets
like they're crystal glasses
that belonged to your
grandmother's grandmother
and made their way here
smuggled in a suitcase
with pulled out gold
teeth and brown plaid
blankets folded neatly
such that none of the
corners stuck out the side.

Sneakers sinking
into mossy muddy
backyard ground,
you extend arms
up and grab the
lowest branch of
the tallest tree and
pull yourself up
to sit atop and look
down at all the people,
holding your fingers to
your eye and squishing
their heads between.