i won't write back.
though i know you,
so i know you expect my words
to crawl to you
dragged across lines
bleeding, twisted
into gasping vowels of apology
with a thousand and one
question mark tombstones;
consonants dropped, in the haste
of fitting into my allotted,
and ever-shrinking
space
asking,
why are you leaving?
(y?)

but the right question,
when i was dining on the table scraps
you threw to me
growing thinner from bread
and the water you could spare
when your cactus had her share
and from running in your circle footprints
(you liked to run in snow
so i could follow)
was why
do i settle for this?

i am not a small person
i eat more than the average
trucker
so why
(y?)
do i let you turn me into a waif
who writes letters of apology for starving?

i won't write back
because i know you want me to
but i'm too hungry to spare
any more of my share
for you.