I have a white tank, see through,
and I like to wear leopard print bras with it.
(neon ones, pink ones, ones that scream
looklooklookatmemememe)
Je veux faire du pied a toi
‘I want to play footsie with you’
it smells like you, after fifteen washes.
‘I want to make out with you’
it is wrung from where you gripped and spread
‘I want to *******’
it used to fit so well,
but it hangs like a torn shower curtain.
it is hard to breathe with it on,
because I cannot think of anything else except you
fuckingmeinit.
the words are frayed,
an ashy blue with speckles of snow white.
such a cool shirt, I used to think.
but you bit through it, with wolf fangs,
bit through until you punctured my skin,
drained me until I was nothing but a sac of helpless
skin.

It has French on it,
(so ******* witty)

I

want

to

forgetyou.

you see, when you first left,
it took such a long time to take out the shards
of glass, and fishing lines, and pieces of paper with
****** drawn hearts, and deflated balloons.
it took such a long time to find a needle and thread and sew all the
wounds.
it took days, months, years. and the stitches.
they were on my arms, legs, stomach, neck.
the scars did not heal until, until,
three years later.
you see, i put some scar cream. tried different
foundations.
placed different men’s hands and covered the scars with
bellowed ideas and bruises.


the scars have started bleeding, opened like
ripe tomatoes.
i do not have enough hands to cover them,
so i think i’ll sit here
until the bed soaks through.

it has been three days, and i am grasping at empty straws,
with holes that are microscopic, and i cannot
drink
anything.

it has been three days, and today i saw a motorcycle,
and resisted the urge to swerve into it,
so finally i could stop the buzz buzzbuzzing
in my no sense
brain.

it has been three days, and you are ignoring me,
and i can imagine last night you spent it between the legs
of some petit blond girl who is in love with you,
but you are in love with lust,
and i imagine her nights are pillow filled,
and moony-eyed.

it has been three days, and you still have my *******
jacket. but i am scared to step into your room,
you will speak with marbles and i will crawl, trying
to gobble them. you will crash, breaking my ribs and my
pride.
your fingertips will scar.
(i really like that jacket)

it has been three days.

i can taste you,
on my tongue, in between the cracks
of my canines, saturated on my
peeling lips.
and i haven’t been able to keep food down.
you are in the pockets of cheeks,
and you taste like guilt, shame,
and so much greed. greed.
i have brushed my teeth over five times today,
used mouthwash until my eyes watered.
but you are thick,
and i’m swallowing, hoping it will dissolve.

“i hope i never lose my *** drive,”
the wind tickled as i brought my nails to your
freckles.
your fingers found my back pockets,
burying deep and grabbing,
people watched. you smirked.
“not possible”

i have found myself while dancing,
grinding against walls scribbled with
martinis and broken ideas.
i have seen myself through others,
the girl who wobbles through neon colors,
the girl who shakes until sweat paints a fresh new coat.
i have heard my gospel,
through the thunderous speakers,
the screams of people who want a warm bed.
i have lost myself while dancing,
falling to absent galaxies,
trying to find a light to guide me home.
relying on the touch of unknown men,
to **** this star wallowing deep inside of me.
i do not know who i am
when i am dancing.
i want to think i am the milky way,
or a black hole,
gasping everything entirely.

if someone would have told me, two years ago,
that i would meet a man who would not only enter my
internal organs,
but be able to swim in my vessels without drowning
and be able to ******* over three times in one hour,
i would have laughed.
and laughed.
and laughed.