If This Was Just About Hate
She knows it in her room. She knows
I’m squeezing the mountains
with my bare hands,
that I’m alone in the woods: awake,
alert as an owl.
If this was just about hate, I could sleep now.
I could lay down in one weary gesture
and curl into a sandbag, heavy with purpose
and discarded vengeance.
But this is more than hate, this is
love unrequited, love turned
origami, a question turned
into an answer walking away.
She knows it in her room.
I have sprawled it across her walls
in crayon and hell-fire lipstick:
There is a hallway to me.
There are footsteps you used to take.