Prelude to Bruise

I didn’t exactly mean to survive myself.
Half this life I’ve spent falling out of fourth-story windows.

Come back now. Come back
and put your hands over my mouth

I see butterflies of smoke and blood.

Your grief will be useful some day, says no one.

I wanted, so I had his wrist
like this: held the bones easiest to break

I won’t be forgiven
for what I’ve made
of myself.