With my soft burning hands,
I fell asleep in the gloaming waiting
for my body to unclasp itself. I got the ugliest suntan.
Every broken tail light is a totaled car.
I rely on my mother’s words to bully me
into eating better. I make my bed with the lights off.
I swerve into the freeway divider in my sleep.
This apartment gives me postpartum darkness from
The Loving that I have heaved out of my body.
It’s 6AM and The Loving cries
because I cannot hold it in my arms
because I do not have arms left to hold it in.
My arms lie on the ground like two
unsatisfactory cover letters.
I cannot feed The Loving any milk from my breast without
drowning it in sour milk.
The first time I ever drank, I swallowed turpentine.
I am the party I do not want to go to.
I lie The Loving down next to me,
now posthumously, in my matchbox bed.
I swear Thanatos is knocking at the door.
With the space between reach and grasp,
I cannot hold it in my arms. I am in a cardboard inferno
and it turns out that Thanatos is just spray paint and markers.