I notice the silence of the birds,

the sky scattered with tiny specks of light that might be stars.

I feel the bullet lodged in the back of my throat,

try to swallow it like a vitamin.

I beg the half-eaten pizza on my desk for forgiveness.

I fall to my knees, hear metal clatter against

the dirty hardwood floor, hear every voice

of my absent father.

_Just one thing. Just do one thing right._

I am five years old. As alive as I have ever been.

The only jam I know is the kind you spread on toast.

I am writing letters to Santa Claus and God.

I am crying, begging for forgiveness—again.

(From who?) (Does it matter?)

I don’t know how to move on from this.

I come up with an idea for a poem—a good one

about cigarette butts and cold mashed potatoes.

I remember every book I’ve ever read, think,

_that was a good one._

I laugh at funny memories.

I realise nothing really changed.

I realise I can’t handle the silence of the birds.

I beg for forgiveness

again