summer mornings. sweat, sticky, salty.
licking cracked hangover lips, tasting juices
molded, squeezed, smashed.
fitting together like two folded puzzle pieces.
summer nights. bent over, kissing bruises, battle
cries.
fumbling and stumbling through sheets, thunder clouds,
vapors of ***. alone.
but alone with each other.

in the morning i put on my war paint,
conceal the blemishes so i won’t be blown away,
bronze and silhouette, so i will ignite like Athena.
the eyes, the eyes, the eyes
are my favorite.
eyeliner to smolder, to create fear, to cause your mouth to overflow.
mascara to pop, to outline, to appear innocent (which we both know i’m
not)
lipstick.
orange, if i’m feeing flirtatious,
pink if i’m feeling like *** packed in a case of cigarettes,
red. red if i’m feeling like dancing against walls that are
graffiti stained.
red if i want to kiss you senseless.
but, darling, do not be confused.
i do not dress for you. you may gape, you may whistle,
but this war paint is for me.
because everyday is a battle, and i must be ready,
with weapons blazing

"1 in 8 women will develop breast cancer over her lifetime"
my mother’s eyes did not blink as she spoked riddles.
i stared at the lump. an alien invading.
War of the Worlds.
"For women in the U.S., breast cancer death rates are higher than those for any other cancer, besides lung cancer."
she was in the hospital, a week, or two. it felt like five years.
i did not sleep that summer.
drunk off sake, my mother still did not cry.
"In 2011, an estimated 230,480 new cases of invasive breast cancer were expected to be diagnosed in women in the U.S."
the night before surgery, I cried until my lungs flopped to the floor
like two useless sacs of atoms.
I scratched my skin until morning,
waiting until my veins leaked.
"A woman’s risk of breast cancer approximately doubles if she has a first-degree relative (mother, sister, daughter) who has been diagnosed with breast cancer."
some days my ******* will sting, and I imagine a small demon,
with horns and razor teeth eating away at the inside of my *******.
when in the shower, I will cusp them in my hands, waiting to feel bumps.
instead I feel too small *******, with a heart that beats too fast.
nights, I dream of my mother with only one breast,
I dream of myself with no *******
The most significant risk factors for breast cancer are gender (being a woman) and age (growing older).*
let me never grow older, for I do not want my territory
stained. but I feel it squirming, and I want to **** it out with my
teeth.

it is pathetic that I am most worried about shaving my
head.

paradise is the way
your eyelashes close together
like butterfly wings
as you whisper my name
through pillow lips,
your hand submerged in
my
mane.

speaking of drugs and soul mates,
somehow his dangly fingers found the inner stitches
of my pinkplated skinny jeans.
we fell into backseats and booths at bars that held
sushi and white powder lining caked sinks.
we giggled at how he said tomato, and i dissolved into
the sixth beer, the seventh, the eighth,
the lines between her lipstick.
we danced and screamed among stained floors, holding each other,
waiting until the moon lifted us.
he and i held hands as i ran between poles, pretending
i was the goddess of love, of lust, of night.
we made out and my head cracked upon glass,
his glasses slid upon pavement. he was nervous, i was laughing.
an american girl, his first time.
his fingers traced, cream upon coffee.
in the morning i found bruises upon my lips,
marks of eagerness, of mistakes.
we walked again, not hand in hand,
dreary and rainy, perfect London weather.
and i wondered if having tea
and crumpets would have
helped.

her name was Leah, and she had
brightbubblegumpinkhair.
she was flawless in all the ways i wanted to be,
she was broken in all the ways i thought i was,
like a vase that never sits right again.
everyone else gasped and stirred at the pink puffy lines,
but i found them beautiful. a work of art.
a masterpiece in a museum that is crooked and never set
right again.
her name was Leah, and she scared me,
like a lion with no cage. her eyes were hurricanes that had
pillaged and destroyed and conquered and vaporized.
we baked cookie soup, and i only saw her teeth once.
(they were like white shells found lodged in the sand)
i wanted to kiss her arms and run my tongue along the pink,
see if she tasted like burnt toast and rubbing alcohol.
her number used to be lodged inside my brain,
i memorized it instead of listening to people speak inside white walls
with chapped lip stick and perceptions of nonsense.
her name was Leah, and she had
brightbubblegumpinkhair
with a gun locked and loaded.
we lost touch. i started to be sane (that’s what they call it, at least)
i imagine the gun
her brains kissing pavements and secret filled walls.
are they as pink as her hair?

i release secrets hidden behind a breastbone
that cracks under (pressure),
when gin and tonics enter my achy bloodstream.
i only remember her on the floor.
i dance like broken bottles upon cement floors
when fairy dust kisses foamy glasses.
i was in a mental hospital. yeah, basically.
i forget the people i supposedly love and blame
it on the alcohol,
because i do not have the courage to blame it
on myself.