I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, "My need is more desperate!" and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.