So listen, I was a dream scraper who stuffed dark
into my eyes. I know the little breaths can be
the roughest road to sleep. I know you never

call out because the last thing you want is someone
to help, to pull you out of night’s sticky throat.
When the clawed flowers bloomed on the back

of my secrets, I never told, never tried to rip
out their roots. This was good. There is something
to be said for teaching your suffering how to behave,

how to stand up to sunlight and other people’s eyes.
And listen, the red glow just out the window is not
the cigarette of a stranger. You are on the second

floor and a ladder that tall would make noise. And no,
there is no bug that burns that color or that bright. This
is the part of you that is outside of you. It is okay to be

afraid. It will never get in. Wishes are myths. None
of us ever gets to be whole. So sing yourself whatever
song you know. It will find its way out.