With love

Poetry

Dear Dahmer

The eidolon of love has taught me how to kill

and you have made me merciless.

The space between was a narration of

who could love less. I struck you silent with

a sliver of cut-glass in your sleep,

without wanting to. And I sat in my second-chance car

fighting with my hands about whether to hold you or not.

With our mouths and their inward emergencies,

Love isn’t what we were good at.

You are my last and generous Stockholm.

Elizabeth Hsieh