Its funny,
you calling me
“good girl.”

Hands running
down my thighs
and
your lips
leaving saliva,
sticky little white lies.

My back arched
and my eyes closed,
pretending.

I’m this
******
up
feminist.

But tell me,
what to do
when you assume
because we kiss
your hands
have any place
on MY body.

And tell me how,
you wish
for me
to be
your'
“good girl”
when you have yet
to ask
if it’s okay
that you are already
sticking your fingers
inside of me.

She was *******
a pair
of earphones,

in hopes that
feelings
could be drowned out

by some

beating
on her ear drums,

or some

smacking
of her thighs.

A soft bellow blooms
where your hand meets my skin.

Every nerve ending awakened,
like the striking of a match.

An unripe fruit,
not yet sweet
on my lips caress.

Beneath an unmarked grave,
here I will stay.

With each step back you take,
I gather more dirt upon my chest.

Hushed tones,
a song still unwritten.

Your affection,
a dripping faucet
I so thirstily lick from.

Heart shaped locket
that I shall never open.

Our relationship sitting in a car
of a parking lot,
my body tangled in your arms.

Around the country
and your grandfather’s house.

It would rain
a lot
and so,
we would drive.

You used to look away
from the road
and into my eyes.

A cup of coffee
and a squeeze of my thighs.

I used to love you so much,
and now I just drive.

I woke up to cold cotton sheets
twisted around my drunk worn body.

Stomach to mattress
my head,
a mess in a pillow.

Silently spoon feeding my affections
like the smoke that was falling from the tip
of your desires,

or cigarette.

French kissing your worst fears
became the adrenaline rush of a first date.

But still,
thankful that you came,
and went.

Icing, no cake to cover,
too sweet,
a rich lick of lust
and a cardboard heart underneath.

Oil spills into skies,
my thoughts polluted by your dizzy daydream
of color and lies.

I always drove backwards,
a hill and a midnight parking lot.

The condensation creeping up on us,
gazes drifting from street lights to soaked eyelashes,
every last part of you wants to go back.

But,

it’s like how you get into heaven,
you must die first.

i forget to take my contacts out at night but i bet the shape of your collarbones is probably still the same
crooked half moons covered in cream

just like the type of gum you chew

spearmint

and the cigarettes you don’t smoke

marlboro reds

and i bet you still swear too much

****

i forgot that forgetting is hard and that tears on cotton t-shirts will always remind me of the first time i was going to have to start forgetting about you

yet i still forget to put my clothes in the dryer

it’s hard to forget the taste of kraft macaroni and cheese on your lips at my parents house
 
or sinking into buttery leather in a dark room
planting kisses on the smooth insides of your elbow

i forgot that forgetting is hard but i think that if the trees can shed their leaves then it must be possible for you to shed me

how come forgetting you has become so hard when i can so easily forget my dad’s birthday or my brothers favorite band

i forgot that forgetting is hard when you brushed back my hair with the same hand that wrote me a sweet symphony of words worth remembering

and ******* if i never realized that forgetting would be so hard when
i was looking at the pink duct tape around the side mirror of your car while you were deciding whether or not to first kiss me.

I keep count
of the words
you haven’t said.

You sent
two pictures,
instead.

For your silence,
is not close
to deceiving.

And I shall not rely
on all those
mixed messages,
and how
they’ve left
me feeling.

I’d like to say
good-bye,
but now,
that sounds
less
then appealing.