I know.
that sharp memory of
knuckle against flesh has
yanked you from slumber
too many times.
some nights you still drag yourself
to the bathroom at one a.m.
and look for black and blue
under the dim glow.
check behind the door and in the closet,
position your baseball bat
beside you in bed.
I know - you often mistake her lips
for the shotgun barrel of his mouth.
the hands that want to hold you
always seem to look like fists
and now, your body feels like
a haunted house that attracts no visitors.
so rip up the floorboards.
paint your bedroom walls yellow
and fill the windowsills with plants.
when your pain floods
your professor’s office and
she asks if she can hug you,
say yes.
let your roommate braid your hair
and quiet the flinch that surfaces.
when your girlfriend picks you a daisy
and plants it behind your ear,
allow it to bloom there.
your whole body is a garden:
a place where things grow,
no matter the weather or
the state of the soil -
despite what has once died.