by L.M. Scarpitto
Something calls me
after midnight
though not by name.
That would be
too merciful.
It moves beneath
the floorboards
of my better judgment,
dragging one fingernail
along every nerve
I buried there.
I tell it
I am sleeping.
That is a lie.
The moon hangs
in the liminal
space between
my shadow and
the bed frame.
Somewhere
in wanting
and remembering,
I become
a very poor witness
to my desires.
Come closer,
says the thing
I swore off
to memory.
So I do.
There is a hunger
that does not live
in my stomach.
There are walls
my body built
around my chest
even after
my mind
stopped believing
in them.
By three,
I have forgiven
everything
I promised
to hate.
By four,
I am kneeling
at the altar
of an old mistake,
calling it
by every name
except
desire.
L.M. Scarpitto was born and raised in Phoenix, Arizona, and is a writer and essayist. Much of her inspiration is drawn from her family, community, and academic endeavors.
