Today I went looking
through old messages
for the moment
it all began to break
finger-tracing old words
like scars on glass,
hoping one might split open
and finally confess
I guess I am both the surgeon
and the body on the table,
steady hands
- or are they shaking?-
as I open myself
just wide enough
to bleed
I keep searching
for the cracks on
our messages
and our photos,
as if spotting the moment
we stopped smiling
could stitch the wound shut,
But the more I dissect,
the more I bleed,
into the margins
of the autopsy report