I am a collection of dismantled almosts.

I have been cut in two.

I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.

Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.

Poems aren't postcards to send home.

Somebody who should have been born is gone.

The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.