I am singing you a lullaby
and stroking your hair.
I am trying to imagine you
smiling and not begging
not choking or bleeding,
with your hands down
or full of your lover’s body.
I am writing a new story for you
a new narrative devoid of blame.
I trim the edges of this picture
until all that remains
is a world that says it’s sorry,
until all the rugs are hung on the line
so we can see what had been swept underneath,
until people admit that there is a third side
to every story and that is where the truth lives.
It’s time to wake up,
but this is not a poem
Or maybe it is.
Maybe this is someone’s dream
and what a terrible thing that