I am looking for the poem in the ache. I see hurt
and need to preserve it, stuff it like a dead deer.

I think I fell in love with feeling loved.

Look at your wrists. There is so much art
in these scars. They are the perfect shade of

red. They are the perfect shade of hurt
for this poem I’m working on.

When I was young, I taught myself to teach
myself. I taught myself to cry on demand.

I think I fell in love with crying for the camera,

with looking like I felt something
I did not actually feel.

There is no bruise that cannot be painted
beautiful. There is no splinter worth censoring.

I can’t remember if the hurt came before
the poem or if the poem came before the hurt.

Reach for the paper and ballpoint pen
long before the bandages or tissues.
Don’t let this good blood go to waste.

I think I fell in love with a room
full of people who hate me. I think I fell

in love with the actress
who plays me in my poetry.

I think I fell in love with being trampled,
just for the poem of it.