Dear Jimmy,
Will you kneel with me when I am in terror? The past is my face pressed against a wooden floor. Holding the grain, bare feet, squealing. I am often there again alone, howling and unheard, when I want to be with you.

Dear Jimmy,
Will you kneel with me? I never stop bleeding. Barnburner. A bright snap in the night. I pretend I am not humiliated. Undone and rebuilt, again and again through great pains.