dear johanna,

let me explain: your body is a candlestick, a flickering thing. you surge from low-grade panic, from flashbacks, from following the haloed faces of con-men straight into hell. i'm still pulling blood out from under things, nails and telescopes and cotton swabs, it's sweet — it really is how you try to smile one tooth at a time. i made you a scarf and you didn't even know it was yours when you asked if you could have it. i could smell the turned earth in your hands, and for this i could not, not ever, diminish.