The credits roll
And you’re strewn across the cushions.
I know you’re actually asleep—
Not just faking to trick me into carrying you upstairs—
Because your stomach rises and falls.
You usually force your breath into your chest.
Lingering effects
Of dysmorphia.

I trace the scar across your wrist
You don’t flinch at my touch but
I think you know I’m there
You always had better supernatural senses.

Remember that ghost tour?
The October before last?
My sly remarks didn’t break your focus from the stories

With my head laid upon your breasts
I try to match your
Rhythmic breathing
Inhale
Exhale
Inhale
Exhale
In
Ex

My head bows and I would pray if any god would hear
I find peace
Here with your body; I only find
Pieces
Of mine.

I curse that day’s satanic pact
And fear you feel needless remorse
But know that slash was my own act
Your blood refused to follow course