I like the ways you’re broken, like the ways
Your hunger and your fear fit into mine.
The way your eyes take on a certain shine
When my breath catches. How your body plays
A symphony I know as if I wrote
Each minor chord and every pleading note.
I dream in blood, and nightmares fill my days;
I measure time by how a beggar prays.

I cannot tell if he is you or me.
Is it my voice or yours that fills this space?
The mirror does not show me any face
I recognize. I think that I could be
Your brother, lover, friend — or simply you.
Who holds the blade? Cut, then, and make it true.