he is running down my legs. sticky
inside my thighs. like the glue you
used in elementary school. the kind that
peeled off your finger tips.
he is inside of me, dampening my
underwear, seeping on my fingerprints.

i do not know if he likes me,
but his touches feel almost like
love.
but it's not love.

i am the girl, sticky with him and
attempting to recreate my spine.
i am the girl, marks like warning
signs on my *******, but all i can say is
(harder).

i want, this girl to jump inside that lake and
drown.
and wake baptized, fresh, alive.

he is inside my hair. he likes my
hair. he loves my hair.
but this is not love.

i tell him to pull, but he is too
gentle.
i am the girl spilling out her
teeth.
and you are the boy chewing up my
guts.
it is not love.

he is the foreign boy who smells, not like
the ads or the films or novels.
he smells like early mornings and that is where i am always
finding his lips.
he is sinking in my intestines, writhing and thriving, he is the upchuck
threatening beneath my
molars.
i am the girl crashing hard and burning diamonds.
within this room he has shredded me.

it is not love. he is not love.
but it is something.
something.
something.