Dispossess the kitchen floor,
wipe up the skin,
your chin will fade with a smile that way.
What is the word for “do what you want to me”?

for eighteen months,
in the dark, dark streets,
where bold, bold, bold is you—
now, I have people I love again,
and I worry about terrorist attacks,
the unlikely, average fears of things,
you saying, “it’s ok,” hugging me, saying,
“to love things that destroy us is human.”
You’re under the window with the roses,
the window light, the spring trees.
I’m coming back to my freedom.
I’m always released, always forgiven,
like the moon always looks a slip thinner
than it did yesterday. Tomorrow,
I’d rather be destroyed than have a choice
to rebuild with heavy, cracked hands
the dirt buildings, building stones up,
castle-building, building.
Sometimes, it was so peaceful sitting in the rubble.
When everything falls apart, I cave into the softness,
missing hospital beds, missing feeling hungry.
Every day looking back over nine years
of building a new castle to live in
with better stones, better vaults,
and now, it stands magnificent,
and I built that, but now, I’m afraid again
because I have something to lose again,
and I didn’t realize how free I was
when I was nothing, had nothing
but anger, death, reproach,
blood on my hands,
painting on a bloody canvas

brisée, cassée,
or if dégradée is the word.


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