two weeks later, the survivors have nothing new to say

without waiting for the dust to settle, we have all trudged home again
to stare at ceilings separately. the knife is somewhere in california,
or maybe kept as evidence for a crime that never happened.
i don't care, as long as no one's holding it: the blade finds its way
into memories of oak trees anyway and carves summer out.

sometimes you don't know you almost died until you wake up,
one of us says. my ribs are the first thing to hurt in the morning.
blood's not the worst aftertaste, i guess; it beats surgical steel
and the bitterness of a day no better at forgetting nights than i am.

we all admit we're replaying a moment: for someone, it's my voice.
no one else could scream like i did, and i pretend that's something
to be proud of, like i was destined for a life of cult classic stardom
in movies i don't have the stomach to watch. there's only four people
who saw me collapse, only one who heard me curse the sky in anger
and plead for its forgiveness a moment later. i call her to ask
if there's a point to tragedy if no one even sees you perform.
she has no answer: when i dream, i'm delivering my own eulogy
to an empty room answering in echoes and a coffin i don't look at.

we'll claw our way out of this, someone promises. i've heard that before
and i'm still recovering from it. i'd say it's a lot more teeth than nails.
something's got its fangs in me; i am prey again, forgetting to bite back.