i'm sorry
i cannot talk today
my curtains have cried that
the sun is too warm
to be here
where things come
to die
i haven't eaten
since yesterday and
the door is still unlocked
because i am nothing
worth keeping safe
i told my mom
that i loved her
with my mouth closed
and she cried
because i cannot talk today
my walls are panicking
the four of them caving in
like weak knees, i think
they agree with the
curtains
i haven't eaten since yesterday
and the sun has tapped on
my window twice
i have no reply to give
it doesn't belong
here where things do
not live
i don't like myself
because i love my
mother and i am
no piece of her
she can only
love once
and i cant
not love someone
who gives me their coat
a coat, my standards
are high like the ceiling
that rots while i sob
because i cannot talk today
i'll sleep under the bed again
just like last tuesday
when you told me that i was
too haunted to touch and too
hollow to reach
you didn't have to
break that truth
it cuts me knowing that
i do not
deserve soft things
or warm things like
the sun that bangs
on my window
shouting that i'm someone
he'd like to meet

belle, your skin wanders
for that's why the red yarn runs
not by your own hands
but by the gravel of its bare feet

belle, your head floats
pulled astray by arachnids
you know not why the web lines
your fingers— only that it does

belle, your neck aches
with the burden of a black cat
the wounds belong to him, not you
not you not you not you

belle, your eyes linger
seven lukewarm minutes
and a misaligned tussock boot
feed your grave

belle, your feet sway
catching baby's breath
from a newborn curtain
close

belle—