To the loves who wear slits like bracelets,

 

 

 

To the loves who wear slits like bracelets,

The woman downstairs knocks until death
but you can’t open the door just yet. You don
a silk kimono he got you from Japantown
months ago, on a last minute honeymoon

and open yourself, ajar.

“We had a terrible fight last night,” you try to explain.
She nods knowingly.
“When I was married, years ago…”

Back in your shell, you stare out the window
and see the world change like a wound.

You think: to the all the loves who wear
slits like bracelets, you have to let them know—

beneath the redness, you aren’t alone.

 

 

 

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