A Poem

on falling backwards, not forwards
on going blind as you fall
on dressing burns
instead of burning dresses
on antiseptic and
cotton balls

on waking up, one day
to find that nobody’s watching
and discovering your door locked
then discovering you’ve locked it
on knowing this, confessing this,
and that which comes with it

on the silence of headphones
on the quiet of sound
and the longing for caverns
where silence is loud
on signs that say ‘closed’ on both sides
but that I keep flipping ‘round

on how I’d like to write this poem
and how I imagine it would sound aloud
and on me bearing gifts like the greek I am
and on you having to cut them out