I have stopped being me again,
And these faithless hands caught
how they mimic the prayers you once taught me
with the exception that they never close.
For the only church they know
is the graveyard,
the bones, the bodysnatchers, the dark.
Those twisted fingers scraped dirt from coffins, ransacked linings, stole souls from sunken skull eyes
watched from afar with lips pressed firm.
I never trusted what I could do in the dark
without you. Without
Loneliness is contagious, and I have known
too many fevers,
but I can’t just call the doctor.
I’m scared of phone calls
and frankly, of myself.
These faithless hands
so quick to leave bruises on the inside of my thigh,
so eager to see me starve again.
But it is
not just them.
Some nights my body leaves me to sleep while it wanders under flickering street lights
and when it comes back, it always leaves the door unlocked,
all the lights on.
Last week, I thought a burglar got in.
She had left a window open and it wrenched me from my sleep,
pulled us out to a moonlit hallway,
and she lied about it.
She said, it must have been a cat.
But there are no cats in this street.
They have been driven away by the dark leaking like glue out onto the pavement
from under my floorboards.
The smell is awful.
My body has been out hunting again and she never knows where to hide the evidence.
I am harbouring a murderer inside my lungs and I am not cut out for jail,
But these faithless hands write scripture
in the form of post it notes,
small mercies in the form of steadiness,
and my body
has become a convert.
She stays at home most nights.
And when she leaves, she lets these hands lock the door, put all
the lights off.
It is not a miracle.
It is not
But it is something.