it’s fine, i’ll find company within
my strands.
pretty girls are made to wait
for boys with impatient ribs.
it’s fine, i’ll scratch until my
skin bleeds the right way.
pretty girls are built to apprehend
every assault.
it’s fine, i’ll pace my room until posters merge.
pretty girls are assembled to bite
their lips
and wear bruised knees.
it’s fine,
because all boys let me do is
wait.
and i don’t know if i’m one of those
pretty girls,
but i sure know boys will continue
throwing me into the
sea.

we wandered in the incandescent halls of walgreens,
my fingers stitched in your back pocket, your freckles
painted.
1:13, two teenagers with nothing but anxiety attacks
and drunken *** keeping everything
together.
i hummed to a made-up
tune.

i might not believe in a higher power,
but jesus i think i see heaven
when your lips erupt
over
me.

"God, you can be so sensitive sometimes."

I want to wear a rock-hard shell plate upon my breastbone, so words and dumb feelings would deflect instead of pierce straight through. If I could I would travel all the oceans and drown inside each and everyone of them until I had nothing but sea salt and a mermaids kiss. I wish instead of tears I would laugh because everyone always told me how crying is for weaklings.

Instead I let your words slice me into raw pieces of meat. Instead I struggle to find air in a room that is too humid. Instead I make believe that you are what I need to survive.

Instead I am too sensitive. And too weak to leave you.

"Your father and I almost had an affair. I thought it was so…romantic!"

My food lingers inside my intestines, attempting to slither back through my throat and wade on my tongue.

The only time I remember my parents sleeping in the same bed was when I was six, and that memory is fuzzy, like fumbling to the bathroom in the dark. I hit corners and trip over my own feet. I remember crawling between the two of them.

And the next memory is my mom in her bed, my father in his. They are not happy with each other.

They are not in love.

The memory after that is both of them yelling. Screaming. Words that are acid filled and burn my flesh.

The memory after is my father being drunk and my mother throwing objects at already stained walls.

The memory after that is me attempting to escape a house I could not find a home in. My mother tearing through my ribs until my plasma trickled down my arms. My father is sober, but sad.

My mother touches my father’s hand,

And I must excuse myself so I can run to the bathroom and punch the mirror until I see the shards poking through my knuckles and feel nothing but pain.

*Lovesinotrealloveisnotrealloveisnotreal.

it has been a week, (or two, or three, or four)
and i cannot find you except in my nightmares.

"you like that, *****?"

it has been a week, (or a month, or a year)
and i drown inside showers that burn me inside
out.

"such a good little ****."

it has been a week, (or five years, or twenty)
and since you have seen my bruised organs,
you have spat on me and ran.

it is burned into my retina,
i close my eyes, and besides the igneous red,
i see your hands tight around my throat,

"why do you like being choked so much?"

because i’d much rather die at your hands,
than admit i still
care.

my fingerprints are aching already,
with the unrecoverable concepts.
i want to kiss this moment,
taste the salts of passion pits upon
my swelling tongue.
it is all gone, and my eyelashes stick together
far too long.
arteries are filled with sugar and sad songs,
and i know i will never feel like this again.
hands to the clouds,
i’m alive for right now.