I forget to tell you I love you;
I can see the whites of your eyes,
frightened. Sometimes I go inside myself and find
only bone and no blood, just dust. I don’t love
anything sometimes. You have to know that.
Once I woke early, as sunrise bruised the fragile sky
and slew my own father, tore myself
from his stomach and crowned my mother
with his sinew. How am I supposed
to pick the thorns out of my back and love
something that doesn’t look like my own
hand? Omit the details, tie me up. Spit in my
face, tell me I deserve it, tell me what I already
know: my insides, iron. Say it’s not a joke
this time. Rub it in a little bit more.
I was not made to love.
Shira Haus is a student at Allegheny College studying English, Spanish, and political science. Haus’s work has been published in places such as the Albion Review, Snapdragon Journal, and the Oakland Arts Review. Haus has always been interested in exploring humanity’s darker, more intense emotions and desires through literature. In free time, Haus likes to read, cook, and knit while daydreaming about herding sheep in the mountains.