wine glasses on your nightstand. You’ve been gone

six months now but I still sleep

in your bed. I feel closest to you

            when I swallow the pills and blunt the knife, keep me

from hearing your voice.


            I sleep in my dress again,

I sleep in the snow and listen

for that sound of the screen tearing

            on the window: come to me from where


you are. Say “It’s been a long day”

because it has been a long day, hasn’t it? A long week, a long life—


and I will spend that walk home thinking about your hands.

Maybe, from this road,


            I will write letters.

I will write: So tell me

                        how I am supposed to go only forward, only rise

to stars,

            to follow this path without you?


Maybe I will stay

            here. Maybe I will heal.


I will believe the divine—the lisdexamfetamine, buproprion, ziprasidone—

            will start working again. Maybe this is the last of the snow

and the path will clear.


I ask you Do you think it will ever be enough?

Do you think the world will stay wild?

                        Do you think I will

find a way to live in it?


It’s better if I leave it alone, better if I can’t name it.

          It is better if I never find my way

back to this moment.


Tomorrow will cool me with grey light, will wake me

with ice. My hands

            will not shake, I won’t worry about how


I might become someone

   no one

            could ever live through. I will talk to my visions—


                                                my symptoms will steady me. 

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