I am sorry to say that now, when I think of you

it is as if I were opening a box, unsure of its contents, and suddenly cut my hand on a ragged edge, I am swearing and I am dripping blood on packing tape and I am feeling very stupid

I am berating myself for making a mistake that has caused pain, while also knowing it is ridiculous to blame myself for a series of events that led to an accident 

this metaphor doesn’t have quite the legs I thought it did, but I can do no better, I am too busy bleeding, or trying not to think of the fact that I am wincing when I move my hands to type

this of course has not actually happened

I just accidentally thought your name instead of someone else’s–some years of lexical habit are slow to break–and it was like a knife in three syllables in my side

I can say that these truly dark months have been the result of poverty, of a crisis of calling, of the loss of stability and certainty and sunlight 
and yes that is of course also true 
and it is true that these new sufferings are at least a release from the aches I felt before
but yes, there is a vast black hole running through my chest and three years of my life that I refuse to look at 
a dead field that I have cast so many glamours over 
so that my eyes may slide over it, beyond it
passing by each day neglecting

I do not know if this will ever stop hurting
but this is the only way I know how to heal:
like a shark.