“I think I’m getting better,” I said.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“My head,” I said.

“Oh,” he said, “Yes.”

And I believed him, because that’s what I do

these days.

 

I still need him to keep the light off

sometimes

I breathe better in the dark

and sometimes every word

is forced out

through a haze of self-defeat

 

When I lit my hands on fire

the smoke was sage

in the lounge of some

poncho-clad hippie

 

I tore my voice apart.

 

“I think I’m getting better,” I said.

“Yes,” he said

and turned out the light.