i. i have convinced myself i look the most beautiful with bruises and
hair that has not been brushed.
ii. sensitivity is my virtue. i wear it on my eyelashes and cry it all
off so i look like a raccoon waiting to be abandoned.
iii. i think if you opened me up inside you would find
books with dog-eared pages and
dandelions.
iv. if i fall in love with you, hold me down with cords
and fabrications.
v. i’m wearing lipstick too much, because all i can think of
lately is your fingers in my mouth and the
cliffs i need to jump off
of.

trill through my veins,
the cadence matching to that of your
muted steps.
drained ribs, vital with the tingle of
your
bristles. trill through my veins, trill through my
veins. let my anatomy be
your melody.

drunk *** is more logical,
you moan things you could never say sober,
your moves fumble but end with awkward
names shout out and nails
filled with blood and dead skin cells of people you
don’t want to
remember.
drunk *** makes more sense to me. because i feel more
****, more alive, yet more devastated.
so when i’m ******* you, i’m trying to ****
out the problems i can’t seem to
erase.
don’t take it personally. well, that’s what people try
to tell me. yet i take everything personally.
(i’m working on it)
i’ll keep having drunk ***,
and trying to mend the bruises that i crave for,
trying to bandage the heart that i can’t find the
beat for
anymore.
people tell me they don’t understand why i’m crying,
and all i can say is,
same here. i don’t get it
either.

we always believe forever. the concept of
your fingers in my spine.
kneading until our bones turn to ash.
there were too many sings. neon.
flashing.
warning.
warning.
warning.
it was a pile up i could never have
prevented.
your lips moved like ribbons upon gifts,
smooth, flowing, not once did your lips
crack.
but your actions moved like snow melting,
i never knew when it began and when it
finished.
when it all is over, i hope the grass will be green.
i hope it won’t be like the color of your eyes, though.
with your mother in New Mexico, you would
speak for me. tell her what i wanted,
closing my throat with your straight forward
cowardice.
with my friends in bars, you would slink behind
my already torn open lungs, refusing to
participate outside your comfort
zone.

i used to believe i couldn’t live without you.
but i can live without anyone, if i try hard enough.

you would think of me in brief sentences, i always
thought of you in papers with too lengthy of conclusions.
remember how we would argue about
who loved each other more?

we both know who the winner is.
your brain was my recluse, but your heart
was just a balloon.

i never figured how to blow it
back up.

There is a blue stain from my pajamas blotched upon the white wall from where you pushed me up against. From when your hips gridded against my thighs, a graph with linear equations that doubled and doubled and tripled. From when your fingers found the furrows inside my skin, planting seeds I am eager yet scared to see blossom.

There is a blue stain from my pajamas specked upon the wall, from when our hunger was too ravenous for even the wolves I tried to suppress. From the sweat I licked off and tasted sweeter than gumdrops coated with honey. From when my legs found your waist, squeezing, Medua’s hair demolishing a man too good, too tasty. From where your palms collided with my wrists, blacks and blues and yellows shooting through closely knit pores.

There is a blue stain from my pajamas splattered upon the wall, and I pass it with a smirk, feeling the presence of you. What will be our next victim, I wonder

cure yourself by finding another boy, one who wants to hold
your fingers as you lose yourself in flaxen
starlights.
cure yourself by singing until your throat chafes
like sandpaper.
cure yourself by telling yourself that you are the moon,
and the moon is you, and she is laughing with you,
shining for you, waiting for you to glimmer.
cure yourself by finding the right people, the ones who
grasp you with splintered paws and souls
searching for whatever tastes like bubblegum.
darling, you won’t be cured right away,
take it day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute,
don’t forget to watch the sun
rise, to smell the coffee with shaky fingers.
cure yourself by watching the cream dance with the
shadows.
bruises are only
temporary.

i fall asleep at six in the morning on weekends,
but through the weeks i collapse as as soon as
ten.

i think ***** has become my new lover,
he leaves hickeys, caked like dried
paint.
he doesn’t disappoint, slurring in words
heavy and foamy.

you are mad.
(because i no longer need you)
but i will crave you until my insides
**** the earth.

maybe that is why being sober for too long
scares me.
we always preach about never becoming our
parents, yet before we realize it we are talking, eating like them.
my mothers boots are too tight.
i think your fathers fight just right.

you miss me now, because all you have is my ghost.
and i hope she haunts you every step of the way,
because for three years you
haunted
me.
and i still can’t fall asleep without
drowning within
you.
i hate sleeping alone.
i hope you do too.