All the midnights wait at my door, throb
black against window and wood and stone.
The oracles tell me to stop being so precious.
Pick one and be done. They say to save my
memories, outline them with salt. The suitors
want to be chosen, want to shout my name
into the mouth of empire— all teeth and red
bite. I pull you from the sea of my dreams,
sun-soaked and glistening. My heart buckled
by neglect. My dress a crooked shoreline
on your floor. Yes, I am the cause of every
storm in the distance. The oracles say
in case of emergency, hold up your hand
and someone will find you.