the first time, your fist touched my face
when i was checking the mail
the papercut on my finger couldn’t hold
against the black skin under my chin

the second time, your hand grabbed my arm
your fingers left marks
like toaster burn and clenching jaws
like you thought i was a wet rag
needing to be wrung out

the third time, turned into the fourth and fifth
my ribs couldn’t hold my lungs inside
and my wrist was torn of skin
claw marks complimented my arm
like a tattoo or a tiger’s rage

the sixth time was just like the first
all fist and cheek,
bone and tooth
this is not fight club
but we still do not talk about it.

*(a.m.c.)

i was wind
and you were rain;

we destroyed ourselves.

*(a.m.c.)

i dream in colors of the sky;
with sandpaper hands
over a glossy finish
and bluebonnet fields
in a golden sunset.
my brain is hot-wired to be alone;
i don't want you painting
my skies over
with white.
i'll paint them black
in the morning,
but i will poke holes
so i can still see the stars.

*(a.m.c.)

branches are blown
half-heartedly across the street;
your words flung
full-throttle at my face.
leaves are rustling
through the wind and rain;
heat exploding
from my body in this rage.
cars are crashing
on wet and muddy roads;
mind aching
inside this tired skin.

*(a.m.c.)

the sky is green and i'm cold
telephone wires string above me
and fold into sheet music,
birds sit like quarter notes and treble clefs.

my throat is burning
from the taste of your name
i thought my acid reflex had been gone
since i was eleven.

i cleared my hard drive today
four point two gigabytes
filled with the memory of you
are gone.

in the blink of an eye
you
are
lost.

*(a.m.c.)

imitations of rose-red sonnets
sprung across your face.
the moon rises as you fall,
the tides still rise and crash on the shore.
planets are orbiting around my head,
brain spinning in a colossal daze.
the smell of salt is a cross-stitch embroidery pillow
in my hair,
your grandmother's words echoing
and dribbling inside your skull.
pause for the dead and remember their faces,
remember dirt rubbed into your brothers skin
and the butterfly wings painted
on your sisters face,
toothless smiles and calloused hands.
mothers and fathers rip open and scream,
flashing lights on the street,
sound of sirens,
"it's nothing, he'll be home soon."
he's in pieces on the road,
stop signs lingering in his conscious moments.
the last thing he remembered was
the girl with the long hair and crooked smile,
smoke entering his lungs
and inhaling with welcome.
your speedometer still twitches
even when you're static,
the stars still glow
even when you're gone.

*(a.m.c.)

i poured you out like a ******* drink
now i swallow lakes
and get drunk off the sea.
i thought caterpillars became beautiful
inside their cocoons
but i've become a monster.
because bon iver songs and i love you's
won't last me through the winter;
drunk texts and goodbye's
won't cure me of this disease.
i need cold showers and rainy days,
five-hundred page books and mascara.
i'll cure myself,
thank you very much.

*(a.m.c.)