Warmly, she puts her hands on my shoulders.
Her hair falls golden into her eyes; flint.
The sun doesn’t come through the windows.
It is mundane and it is simple:
It is another day
It is loud, and quiet, and
no one else here knows this
catharsis other than myself.
They say voices can be honey
but hers is just sound; they say eyes
can be oceans but hers is just seeing;
they say lips can be cherries but
hers just speaks honestly.
Honestly,
two pass by; a hand
laid on my shoulder. Hands,
hands here hands there, somewhere
along the waterfall down my cheeks
a damn of bone is placed:
Honesty.

The room is ice blue but it is not cold,
nor particularly warm;
Here, I realize that scars which
reach to bone only
take one misstep;
a slip of a knife. A second
takes a life, guns are shot through
skulls before you can blink.
And with a scalpel, she pokes
at puckered flesh:
“That Sucks,”
honestly,
&
“But You’ve got Me. And the
other one.”
While the blood on my knees
spells out,
you don’t know who to believe.

Honestly,
I can throw myself into the sea,
Swallow salt. Cry A River.
Sit down on plush chairs
but nothing will beat a mundane
day, a piano bench,
and.