Sincerely

You are your signature,

Though you claim to be the page.

Your wrists are white

And bumpy;

Your palms feel balmy

And smell mangled.

I reduce you

Like a misguided rectangle

Into the square it was meant

To be.

But you are not evil.

The horns in pictures of you

Are drawn.

For that, I do not

Apologize.

I do ask for understanding.

At sixteen

I reported my palms missing.

My fists hid them rather well.

My eyes

Never

Looked down.

An open sore on my ribcage,

Now a gorgeous story

Reminded me

That to leave you

Was to know you.

I cannot believe

It took two cancers;

One I could feel,

One seen retroactively

To love you again.

With each overturned chair,

The contemplated swan-dive

To leave my unmarked body,

The hours of head crown

To the inside of a locker,

I cursed your name

As a bomb.

I wish you were your signature.

I do wish you were

Your signature.

Perhaps you will find this

Cruel

When you inevitably read it.

When you see your blood

Pumping through the words.

If this is the case,

Hold your breath.

Kill them

As they can only be killed:

In silence.

If you find these words

An attack

And see them stand erect

As your heart

Beats

Faster,

Then you are not your signature.

You are the page.