i
have always been
too good
at sitting
theres a quiet
that grows teeth
if you let it sit too long
sometimes
i mistake memory
for softness
but it cuts
in the places
i try not to name
i forgot the name
of the bird
that used to sit
on the windowsill
in spring
the one with the chest
like a smudged flame
i think
about how
my mother used to hum
while drying her hands
and still
i wonder why
my hands wont stop shaking
why sleep comes
like an animal
i cant quite ****
i knew their names
before i forgot them
knew how to hold them
just right
until they broke open
& gave me
everything
& in this graveyard i keep
planting flowers
hoping one will bloom
into forgiveness
into a
commuted sentence
i deserve
the silence
i deserve
every name
they never called me again
& still
i dream of the bird
the one i cant name
perched on the edge
of something soft
not yet ruined
i watch it
with the patience of the ******
wonder if it sings
for the ones i couldnt love right
or if it sings
for me
some days
i want to believe
theres a version of me
that doesnt flinch
at her laughter
doesnt vanish
before the tea cools
but belief
has teeth too
& ive bled enough
for now