during steaming showers, i decide
whether or not to **** myself, or touch myself
once last time (how many times?) to the thought of
his collarbones and never ending pride.
i like it hot, so my skin is pink like a baby’s ****
and raw so it screams and scathes over wounds
i had long forgotten.
i breathe in vapors thinking them as gas, wondering
how long it took for Plath,
for Sexton until they kissed their own eyelids.


i imagine his lips as he said i was a sweetheart, a doll,
i daydream of his fingers as they entered me with no
worry, two snakes, the venom explosive.

showers are a dangerous time,
i come out alive, with bile and dynamite shoved in my throat,
with my heart seeping through the tiles,
my sanity disappearing into the condensation

mornings of my junior year were nightmares,
because when i woke up all i wanted to do was
die.
school sounded far away, a made-up paradise where
good grades and white teeth would take you to the toptoptop.
my love had left, my friends did not understand.
(oh, you’re depressed? everyone’s depressed)
pop another pretty white halo,
stay up until you think you see the sun scorching your
already fried brain.
mother cried, father yelled
(why can’t you just snap out of it? look at us for christs sake)
trips to unknown people, with thick reading glasses
and rooms that smelled like incense and money.  

i am here. but i am there. i am nowhere.

i was submerged under murky water,
greeted by sirens and drowning fish.
my blood doesn’t look like mine.
i want my blood to run like syrup.

i was here, but i am not there.
drown me through the lines,
until it all sounds the same.

he said, “you’re such a doll”
beautiful on the outside,
with nothing but hollow thoughts
and jingling parts tangoing
inside.
"i’m no doll."
more like a rag doll,
waiting for the next
throw.

i think just recently, i have embraced
mysexualitymyconfidencemylooks
me.
according to men, my *** is the right size,
some want to dive into my eyes and drizzle honey
on my cinnamon toasted pores.
(i am more than these hips, this hair that sometimes wants to
curl like a lion’s mane)

but some (most, you) want to paint pictures and
flick sweeten vowels thinking all i am
is how wet my flowers can
become. how tight my skirt can be
before someone sees the muscular thigh and then blame me.
me.

because, let’s be honest, it’s always her fault

isn’t it?

for once i want a man to not be an animal,
be proud of intelligence and the ability to read until sun kisses their
tired fingers.
i want a man to be able to cry at the sheer beauty of music and art.

i want us, women, human beings, to be able to stand up,
wear whatever the **** we want, and scream.

one day maybe, you’ll let me write my poems upon your skin,
let the words, like vines, trickle and tingle through your veins, itch and scab upon your pores.
so, whenever you’re sad, whenever you’re lonely,
you can see the ink,
and know i will be there, even when it fades.

"i missed you"
well, ****, you fooled me.
somewhere in the depths of my vessels,
i will find you.
but you’re leaving, to “find yourself”
and i can trace circles for only so long.
good luck, i guess.

i hope i’m not that girl anymore,
because i’m ready to test my wings,

goodbye, or something,
we were never good at that.

it has been two and a half months
(really it’s been seven years, three months,
fifteen days, twelve hours, five minutes and thirty-three
seconds)

but my jacket is back.
(except it smells like you)

acoustic guitar, the redolence of ****
and mistakes pungent in the sort of summer air.

but my jacket is back.
(except it tastes like you)

i felt your footsteps, imagined the way your fingers
held my hair, tight, yanking. a doll with loose threads.

but my jacket is back.
(except it looks like you)

your teeth reminded me of the oceans i could never find,
your eyelashes like razors begging to slice me open.

but my jacket is back.
(except it feels like you)

it felt heavy in my bruised hands, your hug
was a boa constrictor killing prey. main course.(dessert)

but my jacket is back.
yet when i wear it,
all i can think is you mounting, hands
rigid, your fingers venom.

i cannot breathe with it on