​I have stopped being me again,

And these faithless hands caught

between steeples,

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 

and I

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 kindness

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

quite enough.

But it is something.


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