In the silence
after we finished fighting
you grabbed your notebook
and drew a picture of a girl
with a big black ball of scribbles
for a head.
You stabbed her with your finger
and you said “Look, look, this is me.
I am all tangled up. I am messy,
I am a mess. I cannot sort myself out.
I don’t know the way out
of this labyrinth of my head,”
and then you threw your notebook down
and went to bed, you left me to flip
through your sketches,
trying to think of a way to tell you
my poems are self-portraits
with scribbles for heads, too.