By Isaac Thornton
Old friend,
it does not seem like you to have
followed me into this world under
the spotlight of the delivery room,
but rather to have crawled into the crib
and cleaved to me there.
Cleaved to me or tossed me out
the window, pouring dollar-store slime
into the baby-shaped indent in the mattress.
You left me boneless, not spineless,
but the backbone is missed
the most.
When she called me,
autumn hair pulled up and pixellated,
and told me that it was just a kiss,
was it you who pinched my tongue?
Pinched it like he did her
breast, under the covers not one month later?
When she—another she—texted that her
father would not wake from the valium dissolved
into his coffee, that she would see me soon,
was it you who deleted my what the fuck text?
Who stretched my mouth into an unsure smile
when a drunk described the colour of his cock?
You have sewn my mouth shut, over and over,
left me no choice but to write it all down.
Please do not scratch out their names,
reduce them to she and he. Please
leave me this confession.