Softest

How does he know?
How does he know when my insides are the softest?
Sunlight casually poisoning my face and lips.
Squint instead of wide eye to the full mosaic 
of shit 

stain and fast made mistakes.
Am I prettiest when I cry?
Is that why it’s such a Sunday night sport?
He makes me feel three dimensional and 
the earth surrounding me quakes in antagonist 
protest.
He’s the softest.
I’m the softest.
I always dreamed of morphing into my partner 
without consequence. 
Eat everything in the pantry 

without consequence. 

How does he know? 
How does he know?

An alter designed solely from rhinestone 
in the farthest part of my closet.
29 days of dreaming only in red.
29 days of screaming in soundproof. 
Kill Bill on repeat. 
Snapped episodes muted.
Every photo of family having a little girl 
face missing. 
I won’t ever return the clipping this time 
to placate the ones who made me.