There were two types of safety to her,

Both existential. The second had to do

Not with my body, but with my soul.

She let me live to write novels and poems.

But it was her who wrote the heartbeats,

That metal scrivener in my center

With her platinum pen, the truest record

Of who I am laid out in wiring handwriting,

Sealed with a laser lid. It was important.

They wouldn’t let me keep the little box.

Treasure chest and monster chest of

A decade of my life, of my living.