I was trying to piece my life together again, he’d made a mess of it,
cracked ribs                   mine,
broken hand                                        his.
I had walked away that night, after being held hostage.
How many hours had passed? Enough. The sun had been shining when the door
slammed shut; now it was dark. All I cared about was that I was still alive, somehow.

I rode two buses and sat at the top of the city steps in Polish Hill, staring at the flickering lights. Meanwhile the voicemails piled up—I love you, I’m sorry, I promise, I swear, if only, you show me, you remain, despite the tests of time.
I didn’t answer I knew better.

I stood up and walked over to another guy’s house, the door, as always,
hung unlocked. He lay asleep on the unmade bed, the room was lit by the blue hue
of the screen, washing his face like cold milk poured at dawn.
I didn’t want to be there, but he was a warm body, in a world going colder.

I didn’t tell him about my day, or anyone for that matter,
it was easier that way, to let the bones heal in silence. 

The next day he woke up early to go to work,
I felt an ache in my bladder, a whole day’s worth, I realized,
because every time I tried to move, hed dig the knife deeper, so I’d stay.

I had to walk to work and I knew I wouldn’t make it there without
pissing my pants, but there was only one bathroom in the house and I had to walk through his roommate’s bedroom to reach it, an impossible task for someone so shy.

I reached for an empty Gatorade bottle so I could piss, but I had once again underestimated my body, and the piss spilled over and ran onto the floor. I wanted the earth to eat me.

I walked to work, I did my job, I pretended nothing had happened,
I worked at a film school so I grabbed Jean Cocteau’s Beauty and the Beast
from our library and walked over to this stranger’s house,
when I got there he said the dog had pissed on the carpet,
I nodded and said yes, he is a bad dog.