These Cells Are Passages

I wrap my arms around
imaginary boys because
ghosts don't hurt me.
Pretending never hurt me.
The signs were aflame,
scorching reality.
My loving imagined
the harshest:
Oh, he's frightened.
Oh, he has innocent secrets.
In reality, he took secrets
from the innocent,
shaped them into proud armor,
and I threw up,
coughed up bile
until I imagined
myself a child,
fingers shining and bubbling
from a hot stove.
Pretending never hurt me.
The elegance of lost frames,
lost information,
that's what hurts me:
the missing threads,
and I am no tapestry maker.
He had kissed my forehead
as if I were a child
and it should have been
a warning.
All of this, I confide in you,
and you make it
about yourself.
Your anger, the stove I touch.
This is why I must stick to
imaginary boys,
with smiles and warm arms,
warm in my dreams,
warm from the fire
of my nightmares.