Not Tonight
He smiles the way he always does.
Soft. Patient. Almost proud of me.
His hand rests on my wrist
when I stand up too quickly.
“Easy,” he says.
The hallway light hums
like it’s thinking.
I drift toward the door again.
I don’t remember deciding to.
But my hand reaches for the handle
the way a plant reaches for light.
He laughs gently.
“Not tonight.”
He guides me back
with a hand on my shoulder.
“You get restless when you’re tired.’
I nod.
That sounds right.
Sometimes I wander toward the mirror too.
There’s something in me
that wants to look.
But he steps between
before I get too close.
“You always do this,” he says kindly.
“You scare yourself.”
He turns the mirror
toward the wall again.
His voice is warm.
Almost proud.
“You’re doing so much better in here.”
I sit down.
The room feels smaller tonight.
“Good,” he says softly. “You almost remembered.”
Wholesale Communion
Years of adoration and devotion crumbling in seconds— holy and cheap at the same time,
Like communion from a wholesale bag. I don’t believe in religion. I still swore my soul to him.
Inside of me?
A tiny Jonestown, eager to drink.
Letters to Moths
Mr. Moth,
Can you tell my saint that I’m on fire?
I've been burning steady for a month now,
kicking and screaming and minding the heat.
Are you attracted to the light of my flames?
They’re licking at the ether,
growing, morphing, and never law-abiding.
Dance around me, bug.
Gather your friends,
tell stories and camp—
Watch a woman burn for something that isn’t there.
This world will be ablaze,
ablaze if my love remains fiction.
Competing only with the sun
for affection.
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