lighthouse

i am stranded in the doorway of
the room where we hung posters
and pictures of happy people and
beach scenes and mapped each
other's love in inches and squares
on nights when the sound of trains
kept us awake. i look at our past
flung carelessly across my ocean of
a bed and remember the nights i felt
the mattress breathing beneath me,
strewn with shirts and things i gave
away in the darkness.

i feel afraid and full of smoke and
danger, but mostly just a gnawing
worry as i stab my tongue with
conflict and confessions and feel
the firebrand of your words pressed
into the inside of my elbows.

i give away parts of myself and draw
razorblades across my stomach and
thighs so it burns when grind yourself
on top of me, into me, and things like
sex and secrets eat away at my insides.
i remember truths and dirty floors and
i know that you know there are always
bruises on my knees and shadows under
my eyes and i have desperation stamped
all over my stare.

i would press your ear to my heart if
i thought it would ease my terror but
all i can do is lace my fingers through
yours and try not to scream. you left
your jeans on my floor so i put them
on and pretend i am you, and i try to
tell you that i would do anything to feel
safe again, that i would do anything
to kiss you behind the boathouse and
feel full hearts quivering and bucking in
the reckless sunlight. i tell you that i
would do anything to feel safe again,
but i choke on guilt and soap and the
smell of my own lungs burning and the
knowledge that i will never feel safe
again, not after the way my heart
wrenched and my ribs stopped fitting
in my chest.

i tell you that i love you, but i would
do anything to feel safe again.