Confessions of the Garage

Some cold nights I would walk

through the parking garage

near my mother’s apartment.

I would call you.

October, danger,

sweetness, lust.

Unforgiving girl I love

 I pull the dog closer,

He’s straining,

longing for a world away.

My mother never treated him right.

With you against my ear

we would laugh and cry.

I would tell you of the words

Carved across my leg.

And you, the jagged mountains

across your arms.

We’re much the same,

you and I.

Back then,

looking in the mirror

could hurt.

So as the cold took the last of my ears,

I left you for the last time,

unsure of how to feel.

Now I walk a different place,

A boardwalk in the woods.

And sometimes, (oftentimes),

I think of you.

As I look into the deep,

I try to reach out.

But the will of God is strong.

So I start back to the building

and decide to call my grandma instead.