It might have been a choice at first —
the teeth in the skin of the fruit,
the seeds down the throat,
the suffering of Mother,
the whim,
the spitting in the mouth
of all good things for me,
but were we not destined?
Was I not supposed to lick
the dust off your heart?
Were you not supposed
to rejoice upon the sight
of veins, and beating,
and our names?
Were we not supposed to find
your bed fits exactly
the two of us and
your home fits everyone
but I’m still the one
that makes it empty when I go?
The world I leave to
feels empty since
your home, too.
— M.H., IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN A CHOICE AT FIRST.