Your eye swims in ink. Whipstitched.

I hate the way your face looks when you tell a lie.

Staples in flesh remind me of ripe fruit, too soft to hold without crushing.

I’m so used to assessing, when I try to sleep I see a map of your contusions.

When I get up in the morning, all I can think is that you’re always and forever lost and you want to take us with you.