Here, where the walls don’t stop bleeding, is where they find your poetry. They don’t understand the flesh you have glued back to your bones. Some nights you wonder if it counts as falling in love if you only stumble into it. The city inside of your stomach tells you everything is on fire. You write about the smoke to get rid of it. When you try to scrub yourself clean, the soap only ends up in your eyes. It burns for days, like always. It is never an easy burden being able to see everything so clearly. When your worst nightmare asks if this is still about him, you say, ‘Baby, you aren’t even close to being in these pages anymore. If I had a chance to create another world, do you really think you’d be in it?’ When the monsters get lonely, you finally learn to stop holding their hands. You finally learn that yours were made for more than this.