Maybe people can hurt us not because we love them;
maybe we love them because they can hurt us.
At least I tell myself this
when the light of my phone flares
up from the nightstand, haloed blue
against the dark air of my room.
I know without turning over
it’s a message from you.
It will blink, an unanswered satellite.
Tomorrow, when you pretend to chance
upon me, either to intrude or comfort,
I’ll explain that I meant to call sooner.
But these days I slide myself
under the microscope.
You might notice vulnerability
is my favorite shade to vaunt,
so pardon me while I push you away
this time. If the stake we wager is pain,
then I am like a raccoon in a dumpster,
gorged on my spoils, skimmed
by a flashlight’s beam.
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