Forty.

I.
It has been raining for two days
and I am not supposed to be here.
I turn off the telephone, forget
to come back. Count days, weeks --
I must not lash out.
Sometimes I wish I'd never left Pittsburgh.
Sometimes I wish that you didn't let me land
in your life.


II.
People keep asking me foolish questions. Remember when it was an accident? A verb that should be apologized for? I'm bad at things like sleeping, and remembering my age. But I know it was a Thursday, and I will always remember that it was a Thursday, after the Monday that I got scared and indignant, after 10pm, with a large gap between the sides of the room.


III.
The plans I made were very simple. In summer, I would grow herbs and flowers on the radiator. The kitchen would get white branches to hang curtains from, and Day of the Dead images would hang from the walls. Muertos. Estamos todos muertos. Then there would be picnics in the park and laughter spilling out of our open windows. Oh, how rare is it that the dream mirrors the day.

I am leaving soon.


IV.
You wake up with bruises on your legs
as if you were running someplace in the night.
You are always running someplace.
You think that he is beautiful
and you are sorry.
Sorry for being a monster,
sorry for not using better adjectives,
sorry for keeping so many disgusting secrets.
It isn't that the truth is dangerous,
but there's something about the weight of it
and how you've managed to mold your shoulders
to carry it correctly.


V.
The sunlight drapes itself over the table and you are trying to form a sentence, any sentence, as long as it comes out of your mouth and makes two-thirds to one-whole sense, you can prove that you are still a human being. Spill a glass of water. Smash your fist into a window. The mess you leave behind means that this was home once.