by Jarrett Moseley
The blue pills you cut in half
lay on the table, next to a glass of water
I poured for you, untouched.
Outside: A long day with no clouds, sky
a shade you named Miami Winter Blue.
You are sitting with a blanket over your head,
hiding, afraid to speak while being seen.
You say, I’m scared one day I’ll just kill myself
on impulse, like, without even thinking.
Later, after you scratch up your face, I hold
a pack of frozen peas to your cheek.
And the room inside you shudders, doors
chattering teeth on their hinges.
I confuse this for opening, for being
asked to walk inside.
Jarrett Moseley is a bisexual poet from the Deep South, now living in Miami, FL. He is the author of Gratitude List (Bull City, 2024), and his poems have been published in Poetry Magazine, Ploughshares, AGNI, and elsewhere. More of his work can be found at jarrettmoseley.com