My mother always told me that if I ran away to another family, they’d only give me back. I’ve found this to be true. I once wrote, I made a home in my last three lovers. These days, I’m all suitcase. The first half of last year, so many threads were cut from my chest, I heard scissors in my sleep. We sat knotting ourselves together on my couch, your head in my lap. I thought if I looked too closely, your hair, the melted birthday candles, all of it, would turn to yarn in my hands. So I didn’t look, didn’t let myself want more than a whisper. I don’t write about this.
Yet you find your way into my poems against my will. When it first happens, I apologize, thinking of the girl I wrote a poem for, who didn’t want it or me. After she hit me, I wrote another. You have never denied me my echoes. When I am full of them, I can’t stop repeating, Thunder. Cedar. Handprint. Latch. You draw me to the oak ship of your chest until all that is left is the murmur of salt and breath. I watch us burn amber. You’ve yet to return me to my empty bones. You call me handsome and mean it. We take our clothes off now. I put the suitcase down.
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Auden Eagerton is a nonbinary poet located in middle Georgia. They received a bachelor’s degree in English at Kennesaw State University and currently pursue an M.F.A. in creative writing at Georgia College. They live with their cats, Calliope Eloise and Carmilla Jane.