To Darkness
.
Whenever I want to write What
Makes People Feel Things,
I look for you.
Examine my skin for bruises
(although I do everything
I can to avoid collisions),
pick at and study
the black somethings packed
underneath my nails
(washing hands is for people
who don’t write anything important),
trace my pillowcase for remnants
of another night’s loneliness
(it might just be drool).
.
You won’t be found then.
It is when I am brightly lit
by a screen, three empty bottles
on my bedside table, trying
not to try, not to think of trying
to write ever again – that
is when you wrap around me
from behind, humming me numb,
wiping me clean of every touch,
kiss, smile, word, that ever seemed
to mean something – you settle
around my shoulders like a cat,
curl across my chest
like a growing bruise.