Sometimes I imagine my body as a part
of someone else’s house
a room where the ghosts are stored
in rows, organized alphabetically or,
maybe, by color or shape
When a lover once traced my bones,
his hands warm and the pressure precise,
he said that he could feel fissures
under my skin, as if my body was breaking
slowly from within
And often I talk to strangers,
in the library or on the bus or
in aisles of the grocery store that I need nothing
from, and ask them to tell me if they can see
whether I’m still here