Conflict stuck to the air
enabled by its own magnetism.
I needed something from myself
before I could come looking for you again.
The dirt under your fingernails
that you gathered from scratching
other men's backs
left tracks on the tender rug of my heart.
There is a soul living in the depth
of my ribcage and sometimes
when I am all alone I can hear her
breathing. It sounds like a song,
one you sang on your bed with your back turned
and still I do not know if this soul
belongs to you,
or if I ever had it to begin with.