I was the child who always stuck her fingers in sockets
just to see if they would send some kind of electric shock
to her dead heart. And I was the one who woke up
in a hospital room with the brother who couldn’t kick
his cocaine habit checking under the bed
for monsters.
Once, we held each other naked in the kitchen
with the soup burning on the stove, and I warned you
that if you were to peel my skin open with your bare hands
you wouldn’t be able to find any remains of my soul,
no matter how hard you tried.
So you sat me on the marble counter and unzipped me
like a dress, said No, it’s there. I see it.
Where? I asked.
And you pointed to your heart.