he still holds your name in his
mouth like his first
communion, his hands would still fit the mold of your
hips if only you'd
let him try. you can remember the light of
after, the gleam of the scissors as you tried to make him
pretty, his strength littering the floor sort of like the plates in your
kitchen now, that kind of
damage. it must've took a whole lot of
something for that to
happen, they say to you. the
aftermath is not
pretty. without his flower petal
ponytail he is no longer
pretty.

it's not a coincidence that his name sounds like falling
cities, how you never bothered to learn to sleep
alone.