i never stopped waiting for the bell.
i thought i could drop the routine of waking up before sunrise
when turning 18 felt soul-changing
so i never stopped being afraid of the dark

it grew up into a fear of the unknown.
i never stopped waiting for the bell.
i leave a life behind me for the first time when I am 5.
10. 11. 13.

i wish i could remember what it felt like to be 15.
if i could scour my girlhood again i would leave a note where i left it, where
i never stopped waiting for the bell
i fell asleep with my head on a desk and woke up fully grown

with the life of a man and the face of a girl
whose sweaty hand I take, who makes me drag her through every hallway
with ringing protests, "You're ruining my life! I don't want to be here!"
i never stopped waiting for the bell.

she rushes, she doesn't know how to wait, how to listen.
every time she's told she knows nothing, a conscience too brittle for violence
shoves a fist behind her back. paper shreds litter her bedroom floor
and each slash of red ink is her only proof.

I never stopped waiting for the bell.

you cover up your fragile skin,
butterfly rashes that snake
their way down your ribs,
paper-thin and streaked with
veins, you call your blood ‘parasite.’

if you were to be believed, you thought that meant
that your pain was to be performed.
to not touch you was a punishment,
but still, you question her insistence
to gnaw at your skin.

bruises that are pretty,
insisted upon you like the ******* leeches
she promises will purge your blood,
your parasite.
“Oh, how lovely it is to be owned.”

there was nothing to be said for teeth,
except “please,” silent stop strangled under your tongue,
but there is something to be said
for this warmth, now,
the first ‘now’ that was never ‘then.’

you do not taste blood when they kiss you.
parasitic blooms on the fragile,
flaking skin of your throat heal, slowly,
when let to rest
under the quiet askance of trust.

maybe that’s what this is.
lately, you’ve learned that you do not enjoy being bitten,
what you loved was giving blood.
lately, you’ve learned that there really are people
who will not ask you to bleed.

what did I wish for
at 11:11?

A million things, maybe, but none of them real.
They were barely wishes at all, just half-baked
whispers on this dead tongue.

what wish came true
at 11:11?

None of them, I think, for all of them
were said out loud. My mouth can only hold them
for so long before it bursts.

who heard me speak
at 11:11?

No one, I think, or everyone.
I can’t be sure (if it matters) who
was still awake.

“I wish,” I said, but I never finished.

what voice wished their half-wishes
at 11:11,
and was quiet again at 11:12.

Summer friends share watermelon slices
while the water laps the shore,
while sea-salt air dries on their lips.

And both of them think that “Days
like these, with salt and sugar on our lips,
make for the best kinds of kisses.”

So summer friends share watermelon slices
while they dance in the sand, and
around each other just enough, and too much.

And both of them think that “this day is almost
perfect - and it would be if she were
holding me.”

When summer friends run out of watermelon slices,
they lay on the beach,
quietly wishing and wanting.

And both of them think that “I wish
she looked at me the way she’s looking at those clouds.”
With their fingertips inches apart.

Summer friends lay amongst watermelon rinds
while water laps the shore,
while sea-salt air dries on their lips

And both of them think that-

Both of them say that
“I love you.”

like sour-smelling spores
we throw ourselves to the breeze,
sea-spray wetting our faces with
hollow tears.

helpless to our leaden blood
we trudge forward,
and there’s no comfort in being
last in line.

and then,

like dominos we fall,
shaking hands pressed tightly
to the sallow skin of our chests,
lost for breath.

a quiet moment as the rocks meet us,
bone-shards and sea glass
painting the shoreline
with shimmer and red.

i can’t breathe, but though
blackness swallows the edges
of my vision,
i have a second left to see.

I see, a thousand feet up,

a thousand counting down.

I have never prayed to God.
I don’t trust something that
calls itself all-powerful,
omnipotence is a bottomless pit of
pride that i refuse to feed or fill

i guess it says something that
i’d pray for you now.

is it still praying when you’re angry?
i won’t ask God for help,
i mean to clock him upside the head
for his arrogance
for his selfishness

i want him on his knees,
begging for forgiveness
like he asks of his precious
little
disciples.

whatever god is watching,
be it him or her or them,
i hope you know that I
Hate you.

i Hate you.

I never thought I’d know the grief of
leaving
before I knew the grief of
gone

On nights like these, I feel
your head still in my lap,
or at least it where it
should be.

Your weight always warmed me,
and now I sleep
3 blankets heavy,
trying to replicate it.

Replace it, maybe,
against my better judgement.

My heart is part yours,
but so are my hands.
This new life I’m meant for
slips from my newly-atrophied fingers

I’ve started to grind my teeth
at night.

I wonder how long it’ll be
until I wear through the bone.

Twin flames burn bright,
then burn out.
If we were both one end of a candle,
now we’re clinging to the scraps of wax

I’m asking - Is it enough to say I miss you?
If there’s another word,
a stronger word,
I’d love to know it.

At 2am I text
“love u”

and hope you understand.