thank you, e.m. & m.m.

for being there for me always

and putting up with whatever

bullshit i threw at you. i don’t

know what would have become

of me without you.

imagine this:

a ticking clock

a heart halved in two

your life divided into quarters

embedded into the first four knuckles

of your left hand

your father’s beloved toolbox

so you think

of yourself

as a martyr

and you spend

your summer afternoons

stabbing holes

into your palms

thinking this is

something like divinity

something like the cure

to your own

self-contempt

then november comes

and you

are still left

with your mother’s hands

and you realize

wounds

are just wounds

you realize

with hands

on the inside

of your thighs

the teeth

at your throat

that gods

belong to everyone.

i.

they tell you that

before you can love someone else

you need to love yourself

after that

you think you’re better of dead

you tell yourself that this (and this and this)

will get better someday

it doesn’t

they talk and they tell you:

i want something easy i want something honest

i want something real but without the sharp edges

without the tragedy without the tear in your voice

when you forget that heartbreak exists for a reason

they want you without knowing

the definition of you

come over but leave your heart at home

your mascara is running

wipe your face, love

else the dogs gnaw at your ankles

else the wolves start howling

in panic

in lolling tongues

in empty throats

wipe your face, love

ii.

you let me into the house

and the cat is still there

but it’s not yours

your mother loves the ocean

and she paints the walls blue

she brings back seashells

she keeps sand in a jar

but the ocean is

five minutes and two lefts

from your window

and i ask

what’s the point

get on your knees, you say

you give me a glass of water

drink it, you say

and i do

and it is all salt and sea

and i remember that

i wasn’t thirsty anyway

i ask

if your mother left your father

for the ocean

iii.

i am not afraid

the first time

when you reach your hands

into my stomach

crack open my ribcage

pull my heart into my insides

i am not afraid

when you drag me to the ground

an imprint

of your bedroom carpet

embedded into my knees

then you teach me

how to drown without a body of water

you teach me

there is no such thing as catharsis

you teach me

how to mourn the death of myself

and how to bury it out in the front yard

you teach me

how to destroy myself

in six months

twenty-eight days

and twenty-two hours

why are you scared, bunny?

iv.

i learn there is violence in your hands

i wonder if there is blood on your father’s knuckles

i wonder if your father’s hands are violent too