When I tire out from slashing

your name on my skin, this skin the sheet

of this one-sided story, when you barely

reply anymore, when you sound uninterested,

the messages sent are coated with

resentment, and the image of your face

now in haze, the places of memory

slowly flaking, when the weep is a tear

is a moan is a whimper, I will not obstruct

(not once again) this body to disrupt

this chronology. The attempts

to be happy, the measure of a smile,

the gesture of goodbye.