Chardonnay in the glass by the window.
There’s a satin pillowcase by the floor where your head was.
I lost track of time for the fifth time yesterday,
When your eyes were shut and your hair smelled
Like the cigarette smoke from her lips.
Her.
Her rose lips from the dark lit room downtown,
Where you drink whiskey the way you like it and
She wears satin dresses that remind you of my gentle pillowcases.
I don’t wear satin dresses.
Even if I were to wear a gentle satin nightgown with space for your hands,
You’d drink more Chardonnay because it tastes like her and her pink mouth.
Your head hurt when you drank that coffee.
I made that coffee earlier yesterday morning but heating it up is no trouble.
Did you miss the whiskey?
That half empty glass bottle could have added to the rich drink I made you.
She would have never considered the way you like your drinks.
She is too busy letting her red fingers dance along the backs of handsome men
And luring your eyes from your hands to her pink lips.
There were pink lips on your collarbone, then I tasted her Chardonnay.
I found that bottle in the supermarket.
It was delicate and light like I figured she was.
Oh, but you fell asleep so fast.
You didn’t get to taste the gentle bottle from the table.
Your Chardonnay is in the glass by the window.
Your gentle little satin has changed colors now,
Switching and fading like her jumping fingertips.
I’ll finish the glass for you while I watch the lights come.
Gentle spinning to lighten every weight I’ve found here,
To make sure the scent of her perfume isn’t here any longer.
Her.

My eyes didn't look green anymore.

You played that song over and over,
til those pretty words meant nothing.
I didn't notice: I sang along too often.

Your smile was toothy,
but I didn't say anything.
"Green isn't my favorite color."

My lips were painted pink,
but I wished they were purple.
That's when I remembered that
you didn't care.

You tore the locket off my neck.
"Say something, just speak."
But you won't like it,
green isn't your favorite color.

You don't remember me,
my name was crossed away.
You ripped my picture up.
You don't make me smile anymore,
anyway.

I forgot what green looked like.
My eyes were bright but I was not.
What does green look like?

I sang those songs you hated,
those words became my favorites.
I searched oceans, maybe, but
I could be lying.

My lockets broken but I don't care,
that was not love.
My favorite color was softer,
just like my own, old, sweaters.

My golden hair is better.
You don't smile toothy anymore.
Thats what happens when light leaves,
but,
my eyes are green again.

I've been
saddled with a loneliness,
that only clarity controls.
With a subtly of insanity,
where a sane man takes his tolls.
Because someone like a jester,
with no royal, hateful, crown
has pinned me with a series of
unspeakable, lazy, downs.
If someone has ever viewed me,
they might laugh and smirk in my face,
because someone, like that jester,
has controlled me with their fate.
I didn't try to make a duty,
of the things I couldn't do,
when fear was binding me at my wrists,
and telling me that I wasn't there.
But the loneliness came crawling,
and it settled upon my back,
because for some reason that
horrible jester,
deems it funny to throw me
off my track.

My hands are on the floor.
My hands are in the blood.
My hands are covered in every choice I’ve ever made.

My eyes are closed.
My eyes can’t see.
The room is so dark, I can’t see the shape; I close my eyes.

Nothing but my silence.
I am coping with the decisions-
The blood on the floor.

My chest is bleeding.
Not my chest- my heart.
Is this my blood or yours?

My hands are on the floor.
There’s nothing on the floor.
I couldn’t find the floor.

I can’t open my eyes.
Because if the world isn’t the same,
As the way I once saw it,
I will lose my mind in all the blood.

I have lost sight of you,
Of myself, probably in the process.
I have traveled through caves,
Carved my way through valleys,
Carried myself through currents with
Hope that seeing your face will bring me back.
You didn’t bring me back.
When I reached for my hand you let me go.
“I gave that to you years ago. How could I again?”
I spit the word “love” and “attachment,”
Thinking they mean the same thing.
I spit the word “hate,” because
That's the synonym you use for my name.
What color are my eyes?
Do you remember- I forgot.
You let me drown; you gave her your hand.
“I have that connection with her, not you.
I gave you all I could, how could I again?”
Her eyes must be a better color than mine.
She tried to kick dust in my face;
She couldn’t reach me.
I was underneath the water,
Choking on words like “love.”
You didn’t say goodbye, but
I guess you left me there to die.
She grabbed your hand before anyone else could.
She wore the necklace that made you hers.
She won the poison this time.
I won’t mumble how you crumble,
She can figure it out on her own.
So, when you let go of her hand,
She can’t blame me, or utter my name.
Because she watched you bury me faster than
The storm that brought me in.

He traces constellations on my back
while I'm asleep.
Last night he kissed each of my fingers,
'one mores one more moment.'
I cracked my knees when he looked
at me.

I'm not much for telling lies,
sometimes the truth stings twice as hard.
He slumps over the counter,
a tower of defeat, of falling,
the tower of a fighter.

My name is carved on his forearm,
with red lipstick and fruity perfumes.
The color of his eyes bleeds when he sees me;
I'm draining him every moment he holds me.

He's weary but he's not breaking;
I falter every time the wind blows.
He grabbed my arm when I fell that way,
I fell into him instead.
My hands broke when I grabbed him.

He corsets up my ribs for me,
I hold him when I can.
He carries constellations in his palms,
and he releases them just for me.
I always cry when he looks at me
like that.

I saw him yesterday, like for the first time.
A flame I lit myself maybe years ago.
Our eyes are never empty when they reflect
each other.

I imagine love would be like that.

I trapped my soul in a music box.
The pearls around my neck sit upon
an empty set of hollow bones that
creak whenever you hold me.

I'm not beautiful.
The pale and curve of my skin doesn't
radiate with sunlight and bring out the
green in my eyes or the flowers in my hair.
I am the negative of a photograph you'll never take:
I am the mistake.

The blood pooling around my finger nails,
the heaviness of my chest every night, the
same time it came yesterday.
I am a prisoner to a mind that never ceases movement;
I am a consistent mess you'll never hold.

My soul sits in that music box,
buried beneath boxes of old magazines,
bags of couture, and the crates of
everything you prefer over me.