the fig tree in the backyard of my embroidered mind / the scar on your lip because i'm a stranger to sharing / my wet eyelashes against your shaking fingertips—
we know the end is imminent,
and i'm still here
trying to shove myths that burst
in the shapes of stars
into your mouth.
because you're excellent at loving me slow and right,
just like how you were raised
just like how i wasn't
but you falter when it comes to
mercy, to kindness
ask me to point where home is on the map
and i'll have to use all ten fingers
because i've found shelter
in all the warmest arms
that melted away in the winter.
what if i didn't want the blood?
what if i was never on fire / what if i was aflame with grief?
what would you have said to me then?
"i don't pity you"
it's all i ever needed to hear, and i didn't
even need to ask you.
thank you.
