Once, I said
I was drawing you a map to my brain
but you gave up navigating
I sort of pity you for that.
You can’t find that gnarly shit
My love for you is like slamming
two fingers in a car door and letting
the latch catch.
And somewhere in there I realized
“You can sleep in my bed,”
meant sleeping alone.
I was your television and I guess
my exotic programming grew
There is no thesis here except
that you have hurt me.
There is no resolution except
to cut off those trapped fingers
But even now, I am unsure.
Once, you said
our touchless intimacy was wasted,
but I don’t find myself a fool
for thinking that getting
us through those few long nights
My cracked bones and split
capillaries hold memories that would itch