We called 911
Those first hypersensitive movements,
a string of pearls tight around the curve of my throat.

The phone
too heavy for my hand; my fingers too shaky.

Call your name. Call you name.
Touch your face.

The whole drive to the hospital I breathed coppery
fear onto the back of my teeth,

I was sobbing, but I followed the sirens,
pool of blood hard and chaliced on my shoulder.
In my mind I reasoned that was good; a part
of you still with me, in the car as I drove,
chuckling at my overreaction like a joke
where the punch line was told first.

We neglect ourselves,
I think in animated mime of my former self,
a new version creeping up through
my bloodshot eyes, the lids
heavy with the fear of loss.

I'd seen you in a fight
before, seen you let loose,
carnal like an animal,
barking like a beast,

holding onto me afterward
while I pushed Band-Aids over
your cuts,

covering ourselves up, follow the
hazy lights, swallow the
fear and press my shaking
foot to the floor.

I hold my hand to my face,
the color red is butterflying across me,
hacking pain
from the deepest part of my throat,
nurses seem not to notice.

I didn't see any other cars
on the road that night,
I was out of my body,

watching from the corner of the room
hovering softly overhead.