The psychiatrist says it will take a while for the new pills to work
so I let him listen to the ocean rumbling inside my belly
for as long as he wants and when he’s sleeping
I hide the razors behind the birthday decorations
in the front hall cabinet, where last year instead of celebrating
him being one year older, we celebrated
the anniversary of the day he tried to commit suicide.
Last night I tried to kiss him in a place I’d never kissed him before
and just as we were about to give up
we remembered his scars
so I did my best to erase them with my mouth
But the cat still meows to be let in every day
and it still sheds hair all over the carpet
and I remember how last year at prom
I wore my deep red dress that matched so perfectly
with the plum lipstick to the side of his hospital bed,
and instead of slow-dancing in his arms,
I listened to his pulse beat through bandaged wrists.
In third grade we read about
how when bees sting someone, they’re really
trying to kiss that person full of a hidden language
so I press my lips to the backs of his knees
over and over again, repeating Get well soon
in lover’s Braille. I remember how the sadness
got caught in his hair and stayed there
until the evening, when I combed it out
underneath the deep pink sky
and that was the evening he went up to the roof
even when I told him not to
so I folded my body over his like a safety net
and wouldn’t let him down.