Jealousy sways them together,
so they touch,
and take fingers that quickly curl ‘round and
choke out what life they can.

They say they don’t remember,
despite the ledgers they carry
in their wallets,
as diaries. As cookbooks.

What they eat
starves them, and in the confusion they
choke
on nothing.

One tells me, If only I could—

Stop, I say.

You can.