You don’t know me.

Not really.

My eyes are bloody
most of the time,
and breathing is like
knives in my chest.

I don’t know you, either.

Your smile is a fiction
I pretend to enjoy,
but your voice sparks
traffic jams and ambulances.

What are you like,
in your truest shape,
your raw, hungry from?

What an awkward dance,
neither of us particularly
gifted in movement, more
suited to staring into space.