every time I see you I need a week to recover
to sew the soft patches back into my leather
I am still peach-heart bruised in my lining
from where you ate me with a spoon
and what’s left of the fruit I had grown on the branch
is seven days later still shaking.
the salty knowsbleed trickles down my throat
tracing trackmarks from where you dug under my skin.
round after round, not a bell to be heard
(and my tagline reads Belle, but she’s missing here too)
why’s it you I must fight to forget?
I am meant to be bigger than this,
and I am meant to be fiercely In Charge
of my own self at least, if not so well
the chemical uproar of my two-fist circuitboard –
but all I can do is clench them to white
and hope against hope that I’m growing.
o mother, my fingers are sore and my knuckles are stiff
and keening in the car again I’m roar sick of this sorrow
but it’s so hard to stop grieving when I know in my heart
that my dead faith in you might be just the bravest thing.