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You’re curled toward the wall,

a landscape of shoulders and resentment.

I missed the exit by five miles

and you made it sound like I burned the house down.

The springs in this mattress

groan when I shift my weight.

I reach for the drawer, looking for a wire,

but find the same black book instead.

It’s always open to the same place.

Someone’s greasy thumbprint

is pressed into a verse about mercy.

I want to read it out loud to you,

but I’m too afraid of how quiet

you would stay.