His

By Emily

And now I sit in the dark,

thinking how you brought red wine, every time,

when I wanted white, every time.

How I’d drink it all and not cry, in front of you,

every time, because I wanted to press myself into your voice,

and not be hurt. You could do it with a single sigh.

I didn’t hear from you after that night,

when I opened my thighs to a stranger’s lies

and prayed that the scars on my wrists were whispering

their final good bye. Yet when the sun’s made

its last reproach, scorched the earth from the

guilt of having to die, I go back to see you when you held

my hand and turned your gaze to the stars in the sky.

“Look at them shine,”

I couldn’t. You were blocking their light.