I promised myself that today
I would knock on your door to ask if you love me.
Standing in my underwear, I assess myself
in front of the mirror. I dig my fingernails
into the flesh on my thighs. But then I remember
what my therapist told me, so I pick
at my hangnails instead. I pull at one
(the stringy pain exquisite) and it’s only when
the skin rips off and the blood pops
to the surface that I am ready.
I have to take an Uber because my body
is shaking too badly for me to walk.
At your door, my breath escapes me.
A promise to yourself, I think
is like a promise to no one. No one
waits with bated breath to hear how this went.
Tomorrow,
I have a good feeling about tomorrow.
