handmade

I still hear you scream.
between 2 AM and what’s left of the night.

I keep my eyes on the ceiling,
trained on the shadows writhing in the black,
wondering when they’ll raise their hand,
when they’ll wrap around my throat.

The skin between my ribs remembers first.
Tightens, peels back, raw and bloodless,
as if the scream crawled inside, hiding in places;
making themselves small, harder to grasp, harder to hit.

My heart beats wrong,
Twitching with the rhythm of footsteps that aren’t there.
The mattress tilts,
leans toward the noise,
the walls press closer, and your fingers—

I feel them in my arm,
splitting my skin,
worming under the muscle,
grabbing hold of the bone.

I don’t blink.
I don’t move.
I just let them.
It’s easier when I don’t fight.

I lose the shape of my body first,
then the name stitched into it,
then the years, the voice, my breath.
Only the ceiling stays.
flat. distant. waiting.

I watch it, let you catch up to me,
somewhat in awe—because how do you always know where to find me?
how do you slip from decades ago into now?
from miles and miles away into my bedroom?

why won’t you leave me alone.

A rasp rattles against my chest.
For a second I think it’s still you.
It’s too soft for it, so it must be me,
but it’s too warm for me, so it must be the cat.

The shadows pull their hands out slow,
the room too quiet—aside of the cat.

At 3:17 AM, the ceiling is just a ceiling,
and I’m just in the way of my cat as he makes his way to the window sill.
I let his tail flick into my eyes,
his paws scramble my ribs like stepping stones,
let his nose bump into my cheeks,
while he stares at me in those endless green ways only a cat can.

At 3:31, I follow him to the window sill,
decades away from you, miles and miles and miles into healing your handmade.

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