I’m sorry every poem

I write is about you.

I don’t know who I am

if not broken and bruised.

I don’t know why I’d fear dying

when there’s nothing to lose—

and I don’t know what happened

to the laces on my shoes.

_(You untied them once in sixth grade._

_I’ve left them that way ever since.)_

_(When I touched the bruise_

_below your eye,_

_you didn’t wince.)_

_(When the moon kisses the sun,_

_it doesn’t flinch.)_

_(Do you get this?)_

I spend most summers

trying to remind my eyes

that they’re brown.

I buy coconut water out of spite

and pour it into the ocean,

knowing it’s wrong.

When I wake up the next day,

staring at my toothpaste-stained reflection,

I cry for forgiveness.

_(Do you think some people destroy the world_

_because they have nothing else?)_

_(What else do you ruin_

_after you’re finished ruining yourself?)_

I remember those nights

when sunshine was still a color,

and I was thirteen,

trying to convince my mom

the rumbling in my stomach

was anything but hunger.

Do you remember, too?

I think that’s when the fairies

invaded our brains—

told us we were nothing

but our pain.

_(Why did you listen?)_

_(Why did you listen?)_

_(Why did you listen???)_

I’m sorry I can’t

make salt taste like sugar anymore.

I used to be the master

of deception—

now I’m just sixteen.

Your skin is the closest thing

to a museum I’ve ever seen.

You left all your things in my room.

I moved out two years ago.

I wonder if it will all

somehow get back to you.

I hope it does.

But I hope it doesn’t.