in my chest i hold

flickering nights on your couch,

crumbs between the blankets.

a movie plays; you pass the chips.

the whole thing is scary.

we giggle anyways.

later, i will sleep on your floor

and you, you can tell me everything.

outside, the moon begins to grow

but tell me.

you must tell me.

the exact shade of his hair, when it fell on yours––

who caught your throat this time? then slit it?

your mother’s songs, her father’s tongues,

recite their cacophony and don’t forget

why you cried last march, how old you feel,

how young you really are.

tell me.

before it all blends      and blends       and begs to be thrown away.

--

dear friend,

the moon has told me

ten years out, we won’t speak anymore.

not for loathing, or languish-ment.

but just–– because.

just      be.

just

.

--

for in the light,

still i find

this sisterhood

lies bone to bone.

you and i

underneath. both

a ways away

from home