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.



I have a good feeling about tomorrow.