It is Too Late to Let Go

It is too late to let go—

to try to make something

else out of this.

I whisper it to the cracks in the mirror:

No knife now, no suture— would work

these tangled veins of mine

has memorized your name.

You pace round the room,

but I can still feel

your fingerprints still pooling

beneath my ribs. Where would I go?

The question hangs like a ghost

of smoke. And like smoke,

it dissolves.

You’ve mapped me

in ink only fire could erase.

It’s too late, this body a museum

of your graffiti—every scar a psalm,

every bruise a covenant.

You grin, stitching my silence

into my battered eye. "Cut me off, babe?"

You whisper...

Our love’s too deep, love.

It’s grown life. It’s learned to stay.