dispatch viii

i come out of the hospital a different person,
mouth full of blood-soaked words,
sanguine between my teeth.
there’s something beneath my tongue, some plea
for answers—
but all i can do is speak in poetry,
trembling letters
on whitewashed pages.
how long is long? how hurt is hurt? how much love
does one have to lose
before they fade away?
they tell me putting off the answer
will only make it worse,
but the words in my mouth don’t come freely,
lingering unasked beyond the page.
in the meantime i do
what any good person does:
protect the sobbing thing that trembles inside.