Thus the rot stays.
Not because I cherish it,
but because it learned my name faster than you did.
It sleeps against my pulse,
mouth pressed to the place where wanting lives,
borrowing my voice when I speak,
teaching me that wanting you is not the same
as being chosen by you.
If you ever return,
you would not recognize this body.
It has been rearranged by waiting.
I lie still and let the rot breathe for me,
a second chest rising where hope used to be,
a slow lamentation carved into my skin and bones.
This is not courage.
This is not penance dressed as faith.
This is the sentence that learned how to stand upright.
This is my punishment.
This is what remains.
I am what remains.
Thus once more began the night.