I keep asking:
what part of me
must die
so I can feel
alive in his gaze?
And the truth is—
it’s always the same part.
The part that knows how to leave.
The part that can bear being alone.
The part that would rather ache in solitude
Than be adored in pieces.
But I quiet her.
I dress her in perfume.
I lay her down beside him.
And in the morning,
I call it love.
Even as I gather
what’s left
of me.