the dark of my heart

Some days, I am all scar
and not enough skin,
kiss like the crash
of waves
on rocks
in front of a dark lighthouse—
heart singing a song
that no man should follow,
all hip and promise,
all jealous grace.

I do not tell you of the drowning,
the way water slips
from mouth to lung,
how salt brines bones,
or the current
inside the dark of my heart.

Yes, I am sea glass.
Yes, I am the fog
on a window,
the want of steam,
a temporary picture
of maybe,
a clash of moon
against the tide.

I have no mercy,
least of all for myself.
I unravel
if you pull just right,
as endlessly broken
as stained glass,
hope prowling
like a monster
inside my laugh,
all impossible,
all teeth.

I could say I’m sorry,
but all three of us
would know
I’m lying.