a bruised sternum is a perfect injury
for me
(lame, out of place, piercing only if i
breathe hard enough)
smack, crack, dunk,
i sunk into weeds, muck,
and the utter and entire absence
(of you)
i crawled, wheezing, a thunder
cloud roared.
(Zeus was laughing, i’m sure)
how...coincidental.
how…ironic.
how…idiotic.
that i should have a chest
pain
near my heart.
a cracked rib would taste
sweeter.
people ask if i was crying
because of the pain.
i nodded, wanting to crack my head
upon cedar.

they never asked where the pain was from,
or from whom.

When Sylvia Plath first met Ted Hughes, she bit his cheek so hard that blood oozed from his skin.
I want to believe I made an impression like that on you.
(Not the first time, when I was fourteen, because I was awkward with too much eyeliner and not enough ideas)
I marked you, on your bones, beneath skin where only I could see it.
(Beneath layers and layers and layers, so I could
fit comfortably. A parasite)
Sylvia and Ted married quickly,
but the idea of marriage terrifies me,
but I want to be with you forever,
(and yet I don’t)
Sylvia loved Ted.
and I love you. too much. so much.
(my chest deflates when I think about
empty beds)
please do not leave me, like Ted left Sylvia.

do not find muses, inspirations,
but since I am the writer, I need to find my muse.
(you are my only one)



I think Sylvia and Ted shared writings,
but I cannot show you most of my words,
for the truth would burn, and I wouldn’t know
how to put out the fire.
but Ted was a writer, you are not.
so I will be like Sylvia, writing about people I love,
until it consumes me
entirely.

i cannot find myself anymore.
i look through the veins, peaking through
pink flesh and peeling thoughts.

i do not know who i am anymore.
i grasp shot glasses.
i haven’t been able to eat without wanting to
puke.

i wish i could rewind.
my scraps are quickly being eaten,
by wolves who have devoured too many
sheep.

i will start anew.
first let me breathe in the rising dawn,
swimming through the aching humidity,
forgetting the color of your tongue.

i will start anew.

the red says, “do no touch”
the purple whispers, “she is not yours”
the blue proclaims, “you want to know, don’t you?”
the yellow laughs, “you cannot begin to imagine”
together, they sing,
“she is mine,
she is mine,
she is mine”

open up my lungs,
set the soiled insects free,
the water is boiling,
and the vapor gathers too quickly,
too much.

“we are mortals”
are words no twenty something wants to hear,
i would like to think i’m some greek goddess,
frolicking forever and ever,
loving until i am drained
(but i am already, darling)

once i knew a woman who closed herself up.
i think i am her now,
i see lemon fangs instead of pearly whites.
i seek adventures within myself,
to find roads with tumbleweeds and empty
ideas

i wish i knew how to stop,
because my skin is frayed and tattered,
from your yanking and feeding.

i wish i knew how to be beautiful,
because that is all we want in life,
and i keep looking at my blood vessels,
“beauty”
yet i see none.

sometimes i become so sad,
that all i want to do is sit on the creaky bathroom
tiles
and cry until i heave and hiccup like a
lonely child.
i will be newborn and ugly,
and i will roll in the earth to become whole
again.
i can feel my veins exploding,
and i can only hope they’re kaleidoscopes,
catching lights of leaves i haven’t seen,
and oceans i haven’t yet tried to
drown in.
my legs are tired. i need to stop
running to somewhere which is never there.
somehow, these are always about you.
but you’ll never know.
i’d rather set my veins

Free.

i have loved and loved and loved and loved.
my chest is dusty and aching,
but with a whisper,
i will love and love and love and love.
even when, no one will
give me love back.


(no one asks how much it stings)