i think i have finally found myself, in between the cushions of
crumble filled and beer stained backseats of his car. through the spaces
of his fingers, all i taste is *** and lingering
regrets.
i think i can finally disappear, among nights that never end,
with tongues that never parch.
a little touching never hurt nobody, and i think my veins
are nothing but fire tonight.
i had lost myself in his red car with a stupid license plate,
and eyes that held me, shut me, locked me up.
i had lost myself in this idea that you can’t be alone too long,
for your own fingers can only do so
much.
i have found myself, while stumbling and purging through
crisp nights, touching car doors, fur, strangers hands.
i have found myself amid his arms, but i’m still looking for the other
pieces,
i think they might be inside you, you,
you. let me take a look, darling, we have nowhere to be
tonight.

yes, i have not removed an inch of makeup, these
past three days.
i can still taste beers and united kingdom’s colloquialisms
on my burdened  
tongue.
and i have holes in stockings and black-and-blues
brushing my collarbone.
weekends, two and a half days, winding among unbolted
doors that lead to what you want but can’t admit
sober.
yes, i still feel every inch when i saunter through flaxen
leaves. how did i never notice such colors
before?
let the world be your oyster, except i’m vegetarian. so let it be my
sea. ocean. every drop that i never tasted.
fingers taste much better when they’re being
shoved beneath your front teeth.
five in the morning is the perfect time for screaming at lies
you cannot see through. for falling onto beds that cannot hold
more than one person but you trytrytry anyway.
yes, i do not know where i am going anymore,
but this tingling in my toes must mean
something.

I had chewed up lips and a consciousness that slipped between your fingers and my thin laced skin. I was fifteen, in love with you and pointy objects and the desire to one day feel alive.

Nights were our favorites. You held me high on your shoulders while I spread my arms and screamed. Your fingers pricked my thighs and I could feel your molecules forming with my molecules and when I saw my breath coming in little puffs of cotton ***** in the air all I could think of, Is this what life is?

Sometimes you would run with me on your shoulders and I had to latch on for dear life. My nails in your gold speckled hair, “Don’t you dare close your eyes,” you’d say and I’d cry from the wind, from the adrenaline, from the thought of you ever letting go. Little crystal streams ending nowhere.

But eventually, you did, you dropped me hard and fast and I fell upon the cold frosted grass. No warning, no squeeze of assurance. The wind knocked out of me, tears freshly stained upon acne scarred cheeks. I tried to lift my head to see you, but you were gone. All I had was the tethered swing set, the stars. And this is what life is, I thought. It’s flying until you can’t. Falling until you cannot breathe and then it’s over.
With a thud.

sometimes i just want to chop all of my hair off and dye it a deep purple,
but i know even then i’ll still like the
sound of spoons clinking in mugs
and i’ll still cry when i hear styrofoam
squeaking past.
sometimes i just want to buy a ticket for nowhere, anywhere,
leaving no letters, no goodbyes, but all my things neat
intact. and i will have nothing but the clothes clinging to me,
ten piercings, three tattoos, and a body too sluggish for someone
so young.
sometimes i just want to wake up at four in the morning and see what color your eyes are
when the sun hits them a certain way, with bursts of gold and specks
of pixie dust.
how do i always end these with you?
i don’t know what i want, but it always seems to be
you. you. you.

i guess i need more mentally disturbed
friends.
i’m feeling lately like the scab that’s been picked off,
forgotten, dried up, designating.
people don’t understand when i say my heart feels like it will
explode out of my lungs, throughmythroat and get caught between
myteeth.
my anxieties need a **** buddy, because making eye contact
is even too
much. and i wish i could stop assuming the worst.
"jesus, you worry too much"
i can’t help that i find the flaws, the nit picky things,
the traits that i want to squish like
blueberries.
i can’t help that when i sit alone in my car,
i think too often of swerving into highways and wondering what a deer
sees before it
dies.
that’s why i don’t talk about this, i never can anyway,
they swell and sit upon my tongue like when you ate that pepper whole
and all i tasted was flames.  
my anxieties and i are the kind of friends where we speak nicely
and are all smiles in front of one another,
but as soon as we turn around,
all we say is venom.

remember when all we had was each other?
i wake up with the same joints creaking, but this time
thunderstorms applaud through my
spine.
my lips haven’t kissed yours enough, and i’m so parched, parched
parched.
poker face, but you have flipped through my every chapter,
every volume, swallowed the covers.
remember when all we had each other?
i’m terrified

that there’s so much more than
you.

she licked her lips, tasted a pinch of salt.
"i’m not like other girls"
isn’t that what every other girl says?
****** bambi eyes, eyelashes curled in a q.
he drinks until she cries, scared she will be
shot. imagine pretty little petals upon pretty little
thighs.
"i’m not like other girls"
ringlets, hair bouncing waves upon waves upon
ocean, sea, tidal
waves.
he smokes until she dances, in circles, through
vapors, underneath a table that holds too much
quick *** and liquor.
"i’m not like other girls"
and he could have said, “i’m not like other boys”
but he was broke, in denial, in and out of love, in and out of
hotel rooms.
words sound so much more appealing in darken
rooms.
"no, bambi dear, no you’re not."

i never feel more free then when
i’m driving with the windows down,
my hair cloistered among my face,
i will walk with a look of infidelity.
cheeks pinched pink plush, eyes are does waiting
to be shot.
i never feel more free then when i’m
driving.
because i can stay among the road, scream until
my lungs turn to ash,
or i can swerve
and taste the Earth
itself.

boys lips are never like yours,
darling.
yours are two peach slices, with a
pop rock in the center.
sizzle, fizzle, dissolve.
fireworks, explosives in our mouths
till the comets reach our eyelids.
boys lips are never like yours,
darling.
their tongues throttle,
yours the snake between the bushes.
teeth unfurnished,
yours insatiable.
boys lips are never like yours,
darling.
yours are the candy that i’ll chew
until i’m sick.

He was angry because the boy with glasses and a gamer shirt had told me he wished he had a girl like me.
It’s not you, it’s me. And the fish bowl that was twice the size of your head.
Punching the wall, I knew
jealousy was a
understatement.
it crawls under your bed and waits until it is four in the morning and you have nothing left
Except tears and yearning for something different,
yet you know you cannot have anything different,
because the thought of mornings without him,
and the thought of phone calls absent of his vocals
makes you want to rip open your ribs until you color his
freckles.
He was angry because he was threatened,
and it was so stupid, so animalistic.
I am not territory, not a tree you lift your leg to mark on.
I am a human, a human, a human, I just want to be
loved.
the door broken, his lips bleeding,
he kissed me until I thawed.
his shoulders shook as he cried and cried and cried,
please be mine, please be mine, please be mine.
jealousy is what we romanticize about,
yet it is the monster we will
become.

i guess i got wings inked on my shoulders,
because i think i’m some walking talking
stumbling
paradox.
one day i’ll fly away,
but crash into buildings, scraping elbows among
shattered car windows and
street lamps waiting to
die.
i’m a **** growing among rusty brick buildings,
admired, but confused on which way to
grow.
i am the sock that has no match,
i do not fit, the one puzzle piece that cannot squeeze.
sticking out awkward, desperately clinging on.
no more questions, no more assumptions.
you laugh because i have wings,
i cry because all i see are
feathers.

no, no, love,
tonight, we are going to become the monsters
we hid from when we were
small.
do not be polite, do not kiss softly,
make me bleed, make me vacant,

let’s release our demons.

once upon a time, he called me Jasmine. princess,
rub my lamp to see all your wishes
come true.
i had red nails, they stained the walls as he kept saying
"you’re so lovely, you’re divine".
drown me until i fill myself with
waste and
melted snow.
maybe i am the ***** you always thought.
i walk among foggy sidewalks, breached with beer
and lust. i was once a girl who wanted it all.
now i just want a drink in one hand, yours in another,
neon lights penetrating, entering,
and you calling my name until i cannot hear anything
else.
i have demons, ghosts, parasites.
i drive them away with butcher knives and spider mascara.
won’t you stay a while,
darling?

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.

"What are those?" You pointed to the scraggly white lines bruised upon my stomach.

"You know what they are," is what I wanted to say. But I bit the words and swallowed them and felt them pin and ***** my inner linings. I wanted to drive a razor across your skin, make sure you bled the same.

"Nothing."

"I thought you had stopped?"

"I thought so too."

I was hoping words of courage, endearment. A pat on the shoulder, arms around my tired back. I wanted to escape into the place that held your tin heart. I wanted to watch Good Eats and laugh about things that didn’t matter. I didn’t want ***.

But you did. You pushed my head down, ignoring the scars, ignoring the tears.

You could have taken a knife to my throat. It would have felt all the same.

pop me in your mouth, and tie me
like a cherry stem.
i am your ******, the thoughts in your mind
that are on your tongue, but you have to bite downhard,
because. (because)
smear my eyeliner so i am soiled, outside.
rip my clothes (these ones, not those), so i am pillaged, forever.
toss me, grip me, you can unleash those naughty fantasies,
i am the therapist that will lick your
wounds (with salt & lime, and coconut pie)
find my breaking point, if you can.
lay me to waste when you’re through,
and i’ll be your ***** cat, purring machine.
until your ready to
pounce
again.

i am a summer wild child,
i was born with sunflowers in my hair,
sand tickling my pores.
i am a fairy with periwinkle lids,
gold dust when i need to..
jolt.
i am a mermaid with scales to
mesmerize, hypnotize, glorify.
(but i fell in love with a two-legged fellow)

i am the pixie your mother told you to stay away from,
but you frolic through the meadows,
hoping to catch a glimpse.

you have broken lamps, chairs,
doors.
hades and hell dancing in your eyes,
the crescendos loud enough to
quake the entire state.
my chest is locked up tight with
locks and grenades.
but all it takes is your fingers
upon my
cheek.
the locks break, the grenades
disintegrate.
you are my kryptonite, you are my fire.

making love should be effortless,
like sand ebbing through achy fingers.
floating upon pillows made of feathers
and fairies.
making love should be steady, yet
untamed. like forest fires that lick
and clean branches,
kissing the trees with ashy goodbyes.
making love should be heartbreaking,
like the taste of salt with no warning,
the crushing of bones underneath
the ideas of love, and lust, and lost.

making love should be like it is with you & i,
your fingers in my hair, your stubble upon my *******,
your arms enclosing me, never letting me go.
making love should always be like it is with you & i,
the quick, the slow, the kisses, the moans,
the sweet and salty veins sprouting,
covering us in nothing but sadness, wanting.

making love should be everything, and completely nothing.

i am not just my *******, the
breath of my eyelashes, the curve
of my hips, the gasps i take between
*****.
i am brave, intelligent, wild, i am the
horse that runs through tall grass,
the cracks between sidewalks that sprout
weeds.
do not say i am just a “woman,”
i am hell on a leash, and i will be
released.

my muscles are singing for one more gallop,
my thighs, bruised and swollen, need a
bang.
my back is popping and creaking, but it’s yearning
to arch.
i need a ****.
not gentle, not serene. do not take your time with me,
(let’s get straight tothepoint,
your point, please)
i am sore (always)
but it is the pain i thrive on, the pain that makes me
grin with a cheshire smile each morning.
i need a ****.
animalistic, disorderly,
as the peevish thoughts in my brain.
i do not want flowers, diamonds, chocolates,
i want the blue of your fingers, the red of your teeth,
the overwhelming thunders and oceans
that rest between your thighs.
i need a ****.
tonight dear, right now, dear,
let me hear you
growl.

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

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.

"Tell me a secret."

I cannot *** with my eyes open. (Especially when it’s with someone)

"No way."

I still believe that one day you’ll tell me you love me.

"Why not?"

When I’m driving, I imagine swerving into the other lane. I imagine what color your eyes would be when you find out.

"I can’t."

I cannot let you inside my anatomy anymore, for twice is far too much. Your touch creates asteroids, and I am struggling to place layering upon the craters.

"Tell me a secret."

*Your eyes are still supernovas.

I like coffee after morning ***.

After the unconscious caresses, the fleeting whimpers and moans, the stickiness that lingers between my thighs, the muddle of tangles that nests in my hair,

coffee always tastes the best.

once upon a time, i woke without your
resonance vibrating through my callused fingers.
once upon a time, i traveled without the constant
and never-ending presence of you.
once upon a time, i could have never remembered the shape
of your freckles, the churning of your irises.
once upon a time, i would have laughed at the idea of needing someone
so terribly, so hungrily.

this time, i cannot blink without the inordinate yearn
to bleed among your crackling pigmentation.
this time, the thought, the mere idea of mornings without you,
are enough to
**** me.

darling, i know i write too much about you.
(at least 100 poems, at least 50 flash fictions)

and every line is too cliche, every word is
unoriginal.

but it’s the way your vein surges with sparks
as you infiltrate me.

it’s the way your stubble paints me pink and red
each morning.

it’s the way you whisper you love me as we
nuzzle in our dew.

my writing has been nothing but you these past
two and a half years,
and it will be nothing but you for
years and years (and years) to come.

(whether it’s cliche or not)

i can taste me as your tongue slips between my teeth.
nibbling on my ribs,
(i think i see the gates)


other men could never stay for very long,
a few licks and they would look up, questioning,
tired.
you stay until i scream,
thrashing, waiting for the demon to finally
be exorcised.

eyes rolling, legs jello,
you do not ask if i have had enough,
and dive back in,

biting my tongue until i taste blood,
screaming until i envelop you.

i take showers at 2:30 in the morning,
because i believe it helps me think and
be O.K. with the fact that you can sleep without me,
and i seep into my mattress petting my cat
and watching sunlight tickle through shades.
i believe it helps me be O.K. with how
you have become my everything.
you are the cream stirred in my coffee every morning,
you are my mornings, my nights,
the dreams i have between 1 am and 7 am,
the bruises i receive from tripping over self conscious
decisions.
i believe it helps me be O.K. with
how i must keep myself occupied when you’re not around,
and i can easily run laps
around and over and around and over,
because otherwise i will feel the emptiness.
i believe it helps me be O.K.
with knowing you will eventually
leave.
and i won’t know what to do
but
sit
and take showers at 2:30
in the morning.

i am most alive during the summer.
i crawl through arteries filled with stars waiting to
explode.
my upper lip tastes like sweet salt and the sun
will never stop kissing me.
i am most ravenous during the summer.
i wear shorter shorts, touching myself, touching
him until i cannot find the difference between our
galaxies.
i am most insane during the summer.
i run with nothing but my scarcity, my self-consciousness,
i flip through lakes algae blooming and throbbing.
i am most me during the summer.
i find beauty within the melodies of my
peers. i dance through blades with bare toes and
tangled hair.
summer is never forever,
but tonight it will be.

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.