for cradling my heart in your palms
back when it would still hemorrhage with hate.
These days I do not rage at life anymore.
I raise my hand before I am called upon.
I participate in the body electric.
And when you think of my body
I bet you still think of brutality.
A fist thrust through crumbled drywall,
not a single eyelash left to pick,
a voice hoarse from cursing the entire world
over and over, constellations of lilac bruises.
Yet when I think of your body
I think of the softest place I’ve ever landed.
A fan to my flame, a miraculous sedative,
a safe nest where I could play baby bird
and not have to face the thousands
of death sentences I’d write for myself.
If I could write you a letter
I’d tell you how gentle I’ve become.
Like an autumn morning breeze.
Liquid gold honey dripping from a teaspoon.
A perfect, unfinished sentence.
Just like you.