an amber bottle full of dark secrets and broken promises
we press our chapped lips against the rim
the burn of the *** is the only fire left in my stomach
the shake of your hands is what i  feel in my bones
mommy taught me how to make a cocktail
before she taught me how to love myself
and long story short  i can make mixed drinks in my sleep
but self care is blacking out in the backyards of strangers

s.s

my words are like apple juice.
simple and reminiscent of a small child.
they drip down my chin,
flood my chest,
and make the floors sticky.
no one likes a mess

they smell sweet and interesting
but when you finally
get them in your mouth,
they’re bland
they don’t taste as good as they should.
no one likes that,
but it’s okay because I don’t either.

all I’ve ever wanted was
rosé flowing from my mouth,
my fingertips,
its intoxicating scent drawing
Instagram teenagers and publishers
into my spell.
everyone would want to taste
and maybe
my words would mean something to someone

but I’m cursed with apple juice words
forming rambling episodes
on notebook paper
that no one would want to read

The man always claims that I am triggered.
But there’s some things he’s left unconsidered.

Sure, I am triggered. And rightfully so.
When a man can use his pinkie to use
parts of me I’ll never get back, and throw
me to a cycle of escaping abuse.

Rightfully so when a man can tell me
my experiences are not enough
to really warrant my ptsd.
When they can tell me my life’s not tough.

Rightfully so when a man claims to know
the true inner workings of the woman,
when he’s planted the seeds we’ve seen him sow
And refused to reap, blaming us for sin.

When a woman feels passionate about
what hurts her, what’s unfair, what pains her heart,
when she wants to disprove the hate you spout,
your reaction is what sets you apart.

they’re the reason when I’m truly triggered,
the light inside me has always flickered.

I appear to be a wayward daughter,
already headed towards the slaughter.

My misguided acts of intimacy
Have been misinterpreted as acts of
Defiance and greed without intricacy,
Never thought of as a girl’s search for love.

I was focused on my broken parts.
I looked to love as a form of repair.
That is exactly when the soul departs.
Soulless, I let myself into their snare.

That wasn’t truly me who gave it up.
I am left with more damage than before.
Still worth more than an abusive hookup.
They will wreak havoc but I’m still the *****.