I knock your headboard against the stucco and studs rattle the collars we wore the leashes between us wrapped twice round our fists I smash the pots you willed with cracked hands and kiln then clean up the pieces the foxes the bird dogs carnations sunflowers set your curtain so sunlight slices your eyes just before your alarm clock can wake you I hide in your closet rummage your dresser try to find ways of exposing your lies grab at your ankle from under your bed when you walk by sneak peeks up your dress I am wanting to die twice I tuck blonde hair behind your ear when you fall asleep cover you with a blanket when you’re too drunk to stand clean up all the bottles do dishes extinguish candles you forget to play with your two cats when you’re out late pace your main hall knock tchotchkes off your shelf when you bring a date home make your pants dance to draw laughter from your belly shut your windows when your apartment gets drafty punch holes in your drywall when I see who you’re texting scrawl insults on your ceiling scrubbed clean before you can read them conjur other ghosts and regret it they always just haunt me I hold your hand when you’re lonely I am lonely here too used to touch you when you let me at night without anyone knowing undressed your body memorized all your markings traced the fine line down the small of your spine I am breaking I know this I make altars so I can destroy them.
Gretchen Saint Gretchen is a Michigan-based transfem writer whose works have appeared in Diagram, Nightingale & Sparrow, and The Albion Review. She writes to find and feel her place in the world.