When he speaks,
sometimes I hold my breath
like I hold his hands.

Drowning above water,
caught in the riptide of
Lust and Language,
seems like such a foreign concept.

At least it was before I met him.

I can feel my heart
as it palpitates
and the arteries
that throb just
below my skull...

They silently beg me to
let go of what his words
do - the pressure they place
on my lungs.

Winded like prey
who has just flown
from the ravenous predator.

I feel torn apart
more often than saved.

And right now, I ******* hate metaphors.

Who knew it was possible
to anticipate
that the way you may die
would actually be
the only way you ever lived?

Always caught up in
someone else's words.

Extra lessons after school
Explaining how you are not yourself
Such small words used so simply
Cut like knives through your chest
'She'

Paraphrasing arguments
Summarizing discipline
Faceless family with too much on their own plate to understand
Why you don't like what's on yours
'She'

Tightness in your chest not because your binding is too small
But because it isn't
The name of a state has never hurt so much
'She'

You look in the mirror and grimace
Shower so fast you don't have to see yourself
Roll their words in your mind until you're leaning over the toilet
'She'

Humming summer days fade into early autumn nights
Long days enforce what they have already told you
Dress code laws repeated by tongue
And hasty dressing in changing rooms
Hoping they won't notice you
'She'

But you are an active volcano
There are wolves in your chest and lions in your brain
And they can't change you
You get home and look in the mirror and sign into skype
A simple word that only drops one letter
Has never had so much power

He.

Tonight he leaves you with a pile of his favorite CDs;

you dream of loading them onto Noah’s Ark before the flood,

along with his 3 A.M. texts and prescription glasses;

he will talk to you when she is not around,

look directly into your eyes, until your heart cracks

and spills into his palms like a weak egg yolk

ready for the frying pan. Do not wait for his little green Facebook

symbol to light up or you will be up all night.

He will kiss her in front of you, a kiss so deep

it could cut straight to the bone like an interrogator

slowly removing a suspect’s finger with a carving knife.

Shield your eyes and turn away;

pretend you are casually studying the poster on the wall.

You will wonder if her body leaves an outline in his bed

the same way a crime scene is taped off

around the chalked-in edges of the victim,

and still he will call you twenty minutes before midnight

wanting to go out for ice cream

when you end up comparing the best 90’s music

over his kitchen table instead. When he looks at you

across this very same table, stare directly back.

Do not flinch. Do not turn away this time.

Let the tidal wave of his stare wash over you

until it drenches your hair

and he wants to comb out the sadness with his fingers:

let him. Let him.

It will take a while to work through the tangles

but savor this last moment with his fingers

unknotting you like needles, before tomorrow,

when he will go back to her again, bouncing

between the two of you like a yo-yo,

the kind that returns to the owner

then moves on to another when it grows bored.