Sometimes I come home

at two o'clock in the morning

wearing someone else's clothes,

with thighs exposed and heels

that beat against the concrete

in time with the ringing

in my ears.

The neighbors hear it,

and in their windows

index fingers emerge through

dusty blinds, and they watch me

up the stairs with my head high,

the walk of

triumph.

Sometimes I come home

smelling like smoke other people

have breathed on me,

and beer I didn't have to

pay for.

I peel my jeans off,

pull my shirt like a cobweb

over my head, and climb into

white sheets unfazed

by the things you used to mumble,

still sleeping.

I have grown parts of myself

in petri dishes since I last saw

you,

built back bridges you set fire to

inside of me so my backbone

could not connect to my

courage, so I could never

feel whole enough to

forget you.

I have lost parts of myself

between couch cushions and

under car seats since we last

spoke

that I do not want back,

that do not become me,

that are better off tucked

deep in those places,

because it feels better to cut the

dead away,

like a fresh haircut,

like a frostbite amputation, like

a grand opening ribbon

marking the first full day

I didn't miss you.