how i enter a room in a way
that can best be described as
a gunshot to a cymbal. the way
my left thumb wields more
blame than my right. my
tendency to speak with little
trajectory. how i yearn like
the dying. the salty flavor of
dishonesty each time i reply,
“yes.” how each nightmare i
have both confirms and denies
a suspicion i have toward myself.
my proximity to an uppercase B. 
the cracks, scabs, and scars 
that dance along my skin with
the grace of a foal. how grief 
prematurely burrows in skin
long before it is necessary. how
i desperately cling to the wish
of an apology that will never 
come. the sins i did not repent
for. how i find that true silence
sounds like a weeping mother. 

in response to the question,
“what about you feels hard to love?”