Gape

I donate clothes to thrift stores & pass pieces of me

on to someone else. Am I making less of myself?

I don’t know, but I wear two shades of bright dresses

in case someone compliments the top layer,

& I can gift it to them right off my chest.

If my bedroom’s a mess it’s because my heart’s

stamped on too many of my things, & I can’t decide

who should own the quilted throws of me. PSAs always say

that giving away prized possessions is a sign

for suicide but every time I’ve passed down my best

belongings, they’ve been material stand-ins for my soft

chirrups of misremember me if you want, but you could use this.

When I want to die, the wren in me searches for high places

& considers eating soap. I’ve lifted my bones to ledges

of buildings & turned back around. I’ve called my mother

& told her of the water, how all along my life

there’s been a river & a dive I’ve never followed down

& we’ve both agreed, alright, then. We’ll look somewhere else.