“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.
