And I’m not strong but I will carry you over my shoulder between the cars and I will scrape the lines of poems in paint across the panel of your car and I will cut my wrists but not like suicide. You know the cuts will heal and bruise. You know my arms will be yellowed for at least a few weeks. You know I will always remember, how I still remember hours spent in the attic, in the smoke and piss. You know how I want to open the cellar door and crash on the couch we found around the corner. I wait. I count the bags of bottles I leave in the trash.
