I’m sorry I keep hurting
the body you created. you are
the unequivocal sunrise but sometimes 

it cackles at my acute inability to get out of
bed in the morning. you observe 

my jumbo glass of wine and know
that these emerald eyes are
on the brink of you-don’t-know- 

what. but I starve and smoke and slit
and my body is a shrine of loss. 

I’ve tried to love myself
the way you love my every inch, 
and in the seconds when you stroke

my colored hair and clutch
my cardboard shoulders I wish

I could treat me the way you do.