I stopped listening to songs
with bridges—
they always begged.

I shrunk my appetite
until it fit inside
your gaze.

Then I shrunk
my gaze.

I killed the part of me
that expected softness.

She died
like a deer:
slow,
staring,
unconvinced
until the end.

I buried all of it
in poems
and told myself
that was healing.

But I check
the dirt
sometimes.

And things
move.