I am one-third ghost, two-thirds frayed heart with rough edges.
Inside my house, beneath the bed, a shoebox filled with apology letters
for all the times I fled after sex without leaving a thank you note.
Leave my eyes open during kissing, but when he uncloses his,
I’m the first to look away. In the kitchen, spilled tomato sauce
seeps over the counter’s edges. Pantry filled with cracked eggs.
Everything is leaking, growing, rotting.
My soft insides are spoiling from being touched too much,
and with the last man who left my bed, I watched the moon
until he paid more attention to its light than me.
There are stories on the news about women who go in for ultrasounds
and wake up on the table, legs spread, with tiny purple squid
growing between the bones of their abdomen.
I wonder if this is me. Wonder if there is something buried within,
secret, that would explain this slow bruising,
How every time I think it might be love,
I’m too afraid to watch it last.