that all of my words should secretly scream

your name, your name, or is it yours? 

is a waste of syllables and stress. i am too young

to be so sad, she says, brushing ochre

into the lines of my eyes. she means well. 

tonight we will go downtown and find

the club, the dj, maybe even respite from you.

they will congratulate me on my birthday,

i will cringe at the reminder. once a year i feel less

present, more deadly, more full of illness. 

when the retch of gin spins me out

into the wet street, the glare of streetlights

brings pallor to the skin i wouldn't let her bronze,

i will stumble to the train alone. you left

a bruise along my hip bone from your grip. 

i make too much noise in the hallway, the neighbors'

shih tzu will wake anyone i haven't. when i 

close the door behind me, i will 

turn two deadbolts, the knob lock, draw the

chain, like any of that will keep me safe.