by Wendy Hayes

at the threshold I split myself in half
how else will I fit into the silence that you ask me to perform?

it’s not an easy process
carried out by hack saw and unskilled hands
practiced but dispassionate
repetition without truth is only a tired task

we’re stuck in this cycle
where I show up torn and bloody and you ask why so much of me is missing.
you ask why so much of me is missing
you ask why so much of me is missing
what answer can I give you that you want to hear?
your tongue and your unspoken expectation has created this
my complacency has created this
my fear has created this

I stand at this street corner
cradling a cigarette under an umbrella
I only smoke when it’s raining

the first time I dropped my iPod classic
I took it to the store and they told me
that I dropped it in such a way
I damaged one of the few things that can break it
otherwise it’s the sturdiest iPod of all of them

I think about this and I wish
that you had only held me
a bit more tenderly