Getting Better

Sometime last winter. Let's call it December.
Your collarbone casts a shadow.
You press your fingers under the point of
your jaw. Your carotid artery leaps out at them.
Eagerly. Your body is lines on a grid.
Impatience drove you here. But now
you are patient. Infinitely so.
In the mirror, your eyes are submerged.
Your mouth is stone. You wait
for the skin to split. You keep your secrets
above your heart. They become tools.
They cut the lines to the anchors that bind you down.

That was months ago. You're just now waking up.
Fingers lie in the shadow of your collarbone.
Your secrets can't hide. Vanish now.
You press your hand to her back
and hold her against you. You wait
for the skin to stick. Her head lies heavy
over your heart. Weights you.
Keeps your feet on the ground.