The back of my throat tastes like you.
But the older you.
The “suburbs of Baltimore that I never bothered to learn” you.
The “back when we were happy” you.
I still can’t place your flavor.
Is it the gin?
Or the honey?

I rip the skin apart, picking and pulling strands of flesh off and into ribbons that curl around my finger tips.

I feel the cut, taste the metallic warmth in my mouth, see the bright red seeping between my teeth.

I take my finger nail and press it deeper into the cut.

It feels

hot.

dizzying.

There’s a white flash of pain,

that blesses me and makes my heart race,

makes my breath short.

I will continue to dig until I can find what I am looking to

pull out.

I watched you

**** and

get

******.

And as you withered in pleasure,

As your eyes rolled into the back of your head in

ecstasy,

I wondered

“how ******* high is she?”

How ******* high are

you?

I know I'm good at faking it,
because my entire life is make-believe.
.

As much as I hate to ******* admit it, you look better than how I left you two years ago.

Do you think I do too? Probably not.

It’s weird how we can pick everything back up instantly– the stupid jokes, the long stares, the competition, the drunken fights and guilt trips.

You know it’s not a night until I end it screaming at you and slamming the door, leaving you. Again.

Standing next to you is like stepping into a time machine with hind-sight, and still wanting to make the same mistakes all over again. Except not really. (But really.)

You’re a **** head. But you’re my **** head. And I think it’s time for you to come home. Come home to where you belong.

In a cold car watching our breath rise up, talking about how a neuron in the brain is the same shape as an entire universe, then kissing me with the taste of another ******* your lips. You always picked sweet ones.

I promise not to get mad anymore. I learned how to pick up strangers’ scents too.

Now we don’t have to be alone when we’re together. We can both slowly **** ourselves, stuck together, in your trap house.

Who thinks he is a hummingbird.

I always thought I was stronger than this, and it’s hard to come to terms with the fact that I’m just,

not.

When I get this way, I drive real slow.

Every turn is an ache.

I can’t remember the last time I blinked,

my body gets so still.

I can feel my fingertips tingle, every breath, every hair on my head, every little cell, becomes

quiet.

I go from despair, to anger, to

blank.

It’s hard to get out from under nothingness.
-----------
See, the problem is, I understand why you keep trying to **** yourself. And I understand that I have nothing to offer you. I understand that you are miserable, and don’t care about anyone or anything anymore.

But I don’t know how to come to terms with you just simply not

existing.

I don’t know how to justify asking you to stay, and I don’t know how to justify leaving you alone to that pitch black darkness inside of your skull.

I am sitting on the sidelines, and standing in the middle of your game all at the same time.

And I’m not doing a good job at either.
-----------
And on top of it all, I choked today.

That’s really what made me the most upset– giving in to my own sadness and closing myself off.

I just needed a hug.

I’m so strong, that I’m weak.

Thinking about you,
And not
You.

I'm obsessed with the gray space.

Obsessed with the east side.

With the jungle that grows inside what no longer
Is.

Be honest.

You love him.
Can't imagine life without him.
He's your best friend,
the person you always run to...

But,

He doesn't' make you happy.
You've never felt sustained happiness in this relationship.

And moving to DC,
getting married,
having kids,

Isn't going to change that.

Look, I'm not telling you what to do,
because **** if I know myself,
but at least be honest with yourself.

He's never going to be the guy who calls the cable company to dispute his bill.

If only I could describe the stain between my legs,

the bruises on my knees,

the smear on my heart.

You hurt me and that’s why I keep coming back to you.

I like the way you crack and rearrange my bones to fit into the holes of your night sky.

But I am no North Star.

You’ll find no solace in the soft glow of my distant implosion.

Sinew by sinew, you stitch me under your skin.

Where I end and you begin is determined by your seam ripper, a tool you never seem to want to use.

And while you burry me deep inside you,

I carry you in plain sight, on my kneecaps, in brown and purple bruises.

In the un-dismissable dull ache that reminds me of you.

I may have not been built to kneel,

but maybe I can withstand your bend.

Hollow eyes stare into hollow soul, unrecognized.

You’ve forgotten who you belong to.

Or who you don’t.

Through every little crack,

And into Spaces we thought were sealed,
Revealing Weaknesses we didn’t realize existed.

It fills us,

And expands.

Cracking us open, 

Separating us bit
,
By,

Bit.

This is the beginning of my end.

I've found my happiness again. It's a bottle of Pinot Grigio in a bar that plays Billie holiday and Peggy Lee, where you can commandeer a seat at the bar that's not directly in front of a mirror.

I just wanted to look out over the city one last time.
I tried to mitigate the mess.
I’m sorry for any inconvenience this may cause.
I just don’t want to do it anymore.
I’m ready to be forgotten and to forget.
We don’t need to talk about this.

The darkness is creeping in, and I can’t see anything around it.
I’m scared.

I’ve always avoided the movies that make you jump-- you know the ones that give you nightmares, even after they end-- but now reality is one big horror film.

I’m gonna throw up.

When you no longer want the life you’ve built for yourself?

Where do you hide?

But try to convince yourself you did it for
You.

You are hollow and empty,
Like bones without the marrow.

You spill promises all over yourself,
Like an expensive drink filled to the brim.
Sloshing and swelling,
You tell me exactly what you think I want to hear.

But no matter how hard I ****
And naw on those words,
They are still as empty as
Hollow bones.