Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t just been the backseat of your car,
Intoxicated. My first drunk hook up. My first. Period.
I picture myself being champagne on Valentine’s Day.
I picture myself being you, nervous in the car, holding Starbucks
because you know I love coffee. Sometimes, I picture myself as her,
calling you a stalker and ignoring your calls,
but then I see myself. I call you beautiful,
turn you into poetry, laugh at your bad jokes,
I see myself as I become your drunk Wednesday night
when you’re sad. I see myself as I say no,
I become a “this is not a good idea”
and you a “we’ll deal with the consequences in the morning.”
We laugh because this hurts too much.
You take her out for dinner and I burrow money
for Plan B because you forgot you don’t like condoms
and clearly have no idea how children are made.
I have already named him. He has your curls and
my anxiety. He is smart. Except, I never wanted kids and
you would be a great father. Instead, you tell her
the beach reminds you of her and I cry in a McDonald’s
bathroom with my friend as relief floods through me that
the test comes negative. I stop talking to you,
move forward, meet someone new and before long
see myself becoming you. Because isn’t that the cycle?
Bad men turn good women into bad women who turn
good men into bad men. I’ll set him free so he can hurt
someone like me, and I drink red wine as I read her
poems about him and me.

I've read stories about boys like you
The kind that break hearts
Just by stepping away

I've sung songs about boys like you
the kind that rip apart lungs
and kiss with their teeth

I've loved boys like you
who crossed their hearts and hoped to die
But ended up just killing me

You'd grip
my thighs with your fist
and your words

and you'd tell me
I wouldn't be
me
without you.

I listened
as you reminded me
that I was nothing
but your girl.

And you'd promise me
that you would
save me.

You owned my body
my heart
my future
and my mind.

But today I hope
you curl your fist
and choke on your old words
because now I am
Everything
Without you.

Do you bleed when you write?
When your fingertips
get sore and your muscles
get tight
Do you bleed?
From your heart?
With each beat comes a new
line
and you hope that it sounds like something
that doesn't quite rhyme
But it sounds good in time.
It'll sound good in time.
Just keep writing.


Keep bleeding.

(read forward, then backward, line by line)

I ran.
Not knowing what else to do
There was so much blood on my hands
It was mine
The kitchen knife
Caught in my chest
Guilt
Consumed by
Fear
I was heightened by
Adrenaline
But running on
Wasn’t enough
While trying to stay calm,
Losing control
It was me that would end up
Dead. Because
He was
In front of me
The whole time
It was too late
Trapped
I found myself
Locked in chains
My fate was
Death.

Well...first I'd probably pay off all my student loans

And with the rest of the $10, i don't know.....

Chipotle or taco bell maybe?

you will never be forgotten.
ever.
your name twisted into metaphors and colors and distractions will forever
be painted across pages and pages of her favorite brand of notebook,
no matter how many she burns
there will always be one she forgot,
and she will only find it once she had almost forgotten you.
she will find the one Papyrus notebook
and all of your metaphors and colors and disractions will come flooding back,
just like how the ocean in your eyes
flooded her heart all those years ago.

this is a reminder. sweet one,
your heart does not beat too loudly in your chest.
does not take up too much space,
does not mistake the moonlight for a streetlamp
when you hold your lover's hand
soft and intertwined
drunk and kissing your way home.
this is a reminder.
your heart is not a machine, is not
a second-class citizen, is not
the color of a bullet hole, a gunshot wound
against a rainbow flag;
this is a reminder. sweet one,
your heart is too big for your body
too tremendous to be
encapsulated within two arms and two legs and
ten fingers and ten toes and
when you kiss, sweet,
carry your hurt like the orange lillies
in front of my childhood home
planted by my mother and
the way she gave more
than she could give. give.
this is a reminder:
the only time
your heart should feel too loud in your chest
is when your fingers are finding her's
or his, or their's,
intoxicated by that moonlight,
a will to live against every clenched fist
finding harmony in disharmony
finding your way
to your orange lillies.

i. the curly, green-haired
leo with the cry-baby tattoo
on her left calf; fish net stockings and
loud guitar playing and
menthol cigarettes. driving through
the park at 9 pm, ***** shots,
the white house with the a-frame roof,
hugs that made your heart feel as warm
as she did

crying as i left my room again to be
intertwined with a girl who did not love me, but i wanted to;
months pass, lonely car rides with
one-sided conversations and
seven years gone,
quiet disconnection
that made you feel as cold
as i did

ii. brown eyes, brown skin,
round glasses and chicago streetlights.
holding each other close on the subway
lakehouse parties in the beginning of spring and
pisces season and tarot readings and
soft kisses on the train.
holding hands at the aquarium,
sweet poetry and calm and
a sense of oneness that made you feel
important

hurt for the third time
a panic, a loss
i held their heart in my hands and
let it fall
harsh
unimportant
i still carry the guilt on my fingertips

iii. short hair. freckled cheeks, i
fell in love with the way the skin
crinkled around her eyes when she smiled.
an apartment, a home built
around our lips touching
wrapped in blankets on the couch,
dense smoke and her hand on my leg while she
drove. chinese food and
waking up against her chest and
laughing so hard
my ribs hurt

crashing. her anger withering away my
heartstrings; pain and
crying alone in the bathtub
moving away
drunk tears on the interstate
punching my thighs
in place of the way her
words made
me hurt