fear is a feast,
my teeth stained purple
from eating bruises—
and i am always
carcass picked clean
by second thoughts.

love?
love is a butcher at the market,
smiling sweet
while weighing out a heart
i can't afford.
it's an executioner—
it asks me to place my own head
on the block—
to kneel before joy
as if it will not
tear me limb for limb
when it tires
of my trembling.

i am fearless among ruins,
skinning my knees
on broken chapels,
yet i fear hands
that thread stitches into my ruin
with the patience
of a surgeon,
and breath that curls in my mouth,
making me taste futures
i am too cowardly
to swallow.



i survive loneliness
like a vulture survives drought—
tight-bellied,
sharp-eyed,
full of memory.

but hope—
hope pours syrup
into my lungs
and calls it resurrection.

hope convinces me
that i want love—
but
only if it promises
not to break
what it finds.