he says i’m beautiful, in the morning,
when my hair is a cluster **** of tangles and knots,
when my skin is indented, chaffed from his bristles,
when my legs are beginning to grow the hair that for some
reason is not supposed to ever be there,
he says i’m beautiful, in the morning,
when i groan and shy away from the prospect
of the day
he says i’m beautiful,
he says i’m beautiful every morning,
until, he says, i can wake up every morning
and believe it, too.

“tell me i’m beautiful”

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.

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.

when i was fourteen i gave my first *******
without even knowing what “*******”
meant.
lips did not touch my
lady organs until i was
seventeen.
when i was fifteen i gave over fifty blow jobs,
approximately over one hundred hand jobs
and received one to ten
fingerings.
the boy at the time could only say, “you’re so good,
you’re just so *******
****”.
with my uneasiness and black rimmed eyes i
said little. all i wanted to do was
please.

i was sitting with a friend and as her soberness vanished,
she told me a man had never gone down on her.
i looked at her with wide eyes and when asked why,
she said,
"it’s just too weird. i don’t trust any man down there."
yet she could deliver tongue thrusts and gags left and right.

when the first man kissed my other lips,
he said i tasted wonderful, delicious, i was the drink
he savored for.
and i remember in that moment that i wasn’t just a
"girl".
i had transformed into cleopatra.

i had a man say i tasted like chicken, and i was his
favorite meal. as his tongue flickered, i would ***
inside clouds. and i wondered why this was such a
hidden treasure.

i wish for all women to be kissed, on both sets of lips.
all women to experience tongues dancing within their
insides. i want thighs trembling like earthquakes,
moans erupting like untamed volcanoes.
i want all women to become cleopatra, joan of arc,
ophelia, marilyn.
i want all women to
become
celestial.

i taste venom. bitter.
tongue is dry, cracked.
licking my lips, but the taste is there. in between my teeth,
lodged into my throat.
i want you to taste this, too.
my thirst that can never be satisfied. you have no idea,
do you?
you lie, and your blood reeks of it.
to spit it back, watch it burn.
a luminescence with no sense.
you'll only return what's mine, the bitter will never leave.
instead it will sit comfortably, warmly
in the pit of stomach,
waiting, like a sleeping dragon, to be disturbed
once more.

i want nothing more than a new years kiss
from you.
so save your lips for me, save your
fingers for me,
until next year.

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've seen your face, recently,
popped up like that nightmare i keep having where my body is left in
lukewarm sweat. your eyes are still as green as stems, and i want to
upchuck upchuck upchuckupchuckupchuck

it's funny how when i was 15 you were my king,
i would have crawled hands and knees, blisters popping like your
car speeding, impressing the ladies with your hair flicks and
tricks
and i know now i am still that 15 ****** dress up girl to you, only i've
filled out, filled in, know where to put the eyeliner, make it waterproof,
knowing how to speak, my tongue is whipping and sharpening

the last time we spoke we didn't speak. you didn't let me.
you shoved the drinks down my throat so fast the cards were blurry and you waited oh so patiently. 'you're such a bad girl', you said.
with your manhood prodding me, you spoke mean. you never spoke nice.
i wonder if i'll always love and hate you.

for so long you made me question myself.
maybe i shouldn't have worn that, or said that, or placed my foot a certain way or maybe i showed my teeth too much or maybe i was being too flirty, or maybe not enough.
these self doubts became my condolences, and even after we were 'friends', you never looked at me the same way. i had to be 'friends' with you because my friends loved you, even after i told them what you did to me.

i see your face like beers shoved in the back of the fridge,
and i am so mad at you, so mad, so mad, so mad, you've taken my guts
and thrown them into the ******* sun.
i was fifteen, you were almost eighteen you and took my limbs and broke them all.
i was prettiest to you on my knees, but baby i am the most beautiful when i'm stabbing you you you you
repeatedly.

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.

i. the night you called me over-sensitive was the night
i filled myself with empty soda cans. i attempted to wash away
your scent. 50. 51. 52. times.
it all still stinks of you.
ii. you used to make me wait until three in the morning.
you never apologized. the last time was until four, and you greeted me
with a kiss that peeled my lips off,
threw me against the wall feeding me words and stale fragments.
iii. the night you said you were ******* her should
have been it. instead you held me,
and i imagined her blonde white hair, her pasty thighs bouncing.
you used to say you loved my cinnamon skin.
iv. you want to return to what we were.
but we were never anything except petal filled wishes and
gluten-free mistakes.
v. do not look for me anymore,
i am gone. i will be gone. i will be kissing stars and men with
accents and minds that are unlatched.
do not look for me anymore.

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.

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.

if someone would have told me, two years ago,
that i would meet a man who would not only enter my
internal organs,
but be able to swim in my vessels without drowning
and be able to ******* over three times in one hour,
i would have laughed.
and laughed.
and laughed.

i've known the boys like him, the boys
with the gentle eyelashes and the
lip petals and spikes.
he touches my hair, twirls it in his fingers.
i am always nothing more to them.

i want to be earthquakes and avalanches,
yet i fold, becoming the beers in their guts, the ash
on their tongues.
but the way his tongue finds my pelvic bones,
how his calluses kiss my bruises.
his scent echoes inside my pillows,
denial like ***** bordering my throat thick.

the boys want my skin, to flay and wear it.
i am a prize, shiny and golden,
and he is licking my insides, my blood and guts.
like wine,
on his mouth, dripping down his chest.

i see how he stares at others,
calculating and timing,
but in the end i am the one, bent over, the one he says he loves.
(to ****).
and i wonder if this will always be this.
nights tasting like cider and ***,
knees scabbed and bleeding and scabbed and
bleeding.

he never touches me outside the bedroom, his
fingers glued to the bike handles.
i want to cut him open and see what's really inside.

selfish. it's what we are
"he means the world to me"
"oh, i'm so happy for you"

no, you're not.
you want to be.
but you can't help but think

why not me?

you love your friend, but.
but.
you want it too. you want the love
the beauty. the success.
the perfection.

you put on the smile, while jealousy
burns your insides
selfish.

it's human nature.
we want everything for ourselves
and are greedy over other people's
miseries
we pretend to care. we pretend to take action.
in reality, we snicker on the inside

"thank god i'm not her"

you console.
but you're happy.
because it's not you
you offer words.
but they're empty
you hold them.
but your arms are no shelter

everyone is so selfish
the ignorance burns their skin
like branding irons


blistering, how can they not notice?

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.

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

"you are my princess,
but i’ll ******* like a *****”
you never did either. i was granted no jewels,
no sapphires, no rubies, not even zirconia
to match this forgery of skin.
my neck felt too small in your tired fingers,
and too many times i waited.
(snap, break, snap)
too tired to throw me down,
awake enough to bruise my blood
vessels.

"you are my princess"
i felt more like the penniless ******,
breathing in vapors while my smudged eyes
twitched and itched.
i would arrive at your doorstep, salivating,
and you never even had a bone to
throw.

"i’ll ******* like a *****"
i wanted your chunks like maggots crave
the panting dead,
i wanted your intestines wrapped with my
intestines, your lungs breathing in my
lungs, every centimeter of your veins
grinding and sweating against my veins.

"you suffocated me"

you had the world at your feet,
and you couldn’t even take one
step.

my soma has been your manifestation.
you vanquished unconditionally,
these love (bites)
have been daily aide-mémoires, that this
fever will not break.

flames are within your veins, darling.

i have seen your inner
demons, and what they hunger
for.
your fingers to my wrists, your
teeth sinking. sinking. sinking
(it has sunk, anchors to wrists)

my demons kissed yours in the hours
of lust and the inexplicable.
my demons ****** yours in the woods
withering.
my demons held yours with homely
silence.

it is when i counted your eyelashes
at daybreak
that my demons finally paced alongside
me.

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.

“you must know you’re beautiful”
somedays, yes. somedays, no.
the twelve year old me will haunt me most mornings,
placing nonsense like a flower wreath through my hair.
she’ll pick my stomach, stretching the skin like putty.
she’ll still her tongue out, gnawing at my bones.
i will hear the dark words, and they will stain upon my skin,
coal and smeared.
the fifteen year old me will creep in the afternoon,
smudging ink eyeliner, telling me there’s never a thing as toomuch.
she will sing into my pores, telling me i need to return to pale tiles
and empty hallways.
she will hide under my skin, waiting until the men and scary ideas return
to the base of my mouth.

my insides are pretty, beautiful (most of the time)
so give me more time, to work on the outside.
it has been long, i know.
but i need more.
more.

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.

My darling. My sunshine. My love.
Right now you are across from me,
Eyebrows furrowed, nose deep in a book
With words and lines I will never truly comprehend,
I’ve tried, but they merely appear as squiggles.
And I keep falling in love with you,
With each blink of those gorgeous eyelashes.
With each breath I hear faintly but presently.
With each twitch your mouth dives in concentration.
With each flip of the page,
I keep falling in love with you.
I love you for the little things. The eskimo kisses, the inside jokes, the phone calls everyday, the brief but electric touches, the conversations, the way you remember things I’ve said years ago, how you wrap my hair around your fingers, how “I love you” sounds from your lips.
And as I watch you,
Concentrating. Focusing. Being that brilliant man I fell in love with years ago,
You have no idea I’m writing this.
I smile,
For maybe you’ll know. Or maybe you won’t.
But it won’t matter. Because I love you.

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 want to show you my scars. all of them.
and tell you the story.
i have many, i know. and probably 50 more will be added.
the ones blossoming on my shins & knees,
that's what happens when you're active in summer.
the one under my bottom lip,
i was young and my slumber met a sharp ended edge.
the ones on my hands,
let's just say the oven isn't my good friend.
and the other scars...
those are the scary stories.
those are the ones i lock away.
the ones on my stomach, my wrist, my arms.
those scars hold no stories, only nightmares.
those scars were no accidents, only battles.
i lie, most of the time, when questioned.
but you are not judgmental.
these scars, i know you could never fully understand.
but if i share my story,
if i tell you the secret beneath the scare tissue,
can you at least try?

hush, hush,
keep your rumbling down. let us not wake him!
he has no idea of this.
oh, this started so long ago, i cannot even remember
the first time i touched your heat,
tasted your iniquitous liquid.
i kept coming back, for one more sip, one more
sniff of your lip-smacking aroma.
oh, how my glands moisten at the mere thought of you!
how my nerves tremble without you.
so, shhh, shhh,
my joe, my java, my jesus.
keep your whistling down, my lover sleeps.
but tonight, we’ll share
another taste in my favorite mug,
we’ll swim in your bitter ocean

the tiger sits behind the bars.
i put him there.
swallowed the key.
after what happened, i want him there forever.
his stripes tricked me. once. twice.
enough.
the blood still fresh on his daggers.
he moans a pathetic moan,
as if his life fades.
his eyes. pierce me.
prode me.
pick me.
apart. apart. a part.
green eyes. like the forest. like the sea.
like something in between.
he yearns.
i lick my fingers.
his eyes never away. never another direction.
my flesh fresh from the sun.
sweat newly coated.
my fruits almost ripened.
the tiger cannot stand it.
and i laugh. and laugh. and laugh.

the key fits comfortably in my stomach.

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.

"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.

darling, do you find me clingy?
you are the first who has stayed for longer then a
week.
you are the first who has spoken to me with truth,
instead of lies intertwined with alcohol and
lust.
so excuse the bite marks, the extensive sighs.
you are the first who has wanted my words,
not the stains within my legs,
or the dampness of my lips.
so excuse my nails that constantly scratch,
excuse the quiver my voice has when you
leave.
you are the first that has said,
“i love you”
and i have actually believed.
you are the first that has said,
“i will stay”
and actually have.

you're that ******* scab i keep picking at,
only to have the blood spill and harden
again.

with a smile and a snap,
you expect my clothes to appear on the floor.
with a stupid combination of words
you wish for me to drop to my knees.
oh babe, how blind are you?
there are tears flowing down my cheeks
for i haven't been able to stop laughing.

keep thinking what you want
imagine me in any position your black heart
desires.
i'll play along. whisper all the ***** words
your ears die to hear.
i'll fix my hair real nice,
powder my face to perfection
and i'll appear, like some fairy
you never would have believed in.

darling, am i not a goddess?
kiss my feet, you worthless animal
say you are sorry until you have no voice left

i will take your face in my hands
put your lips to mine
and spit the poison you fed me back
into your mouth
i will shove you to the floor
throw my head back and laugh
dig my heel into your back
until blood trickles like small rivers

leave. i will leave you. just like all those years ago
when you left me.


babe, it was all too simple.


oh, hello *******.
my name is karma, it's a pleasure to meet you.

we are not the same
(in practically every way)
i dark, by birth and sun,
you refuse to step outside.
i yearn for the opposite ***,
you hold your breath.
i, restless, always ready for adventure,
you, scared by the potential of the day.
i indulge.
you judge.
i don't pull,
(although i want to)
you don't scold
(but you desire to)
opposites attract, or something among those lines.
too much opposite for me.
you whine at the nearest task,
i mumble, but trudge along.

friends. best friends.
(but with a warning label attached)

whole
well, i was. for a while
i counted all the pieces, and all
numbers were counted for.
it's always so suddenly
bam.
the pieces fell away. some out
the window.
some crashed into smaller pieces
around my feet
some pieces shimmered
some pieces were pink
black, dark green, sky blue
some pieces lacked color entirely
i scrambled,
my hands fumbled
my fingers slipped, trying to
pick the pieces
some pieces cut me
and my blood stained them
dark red.

i stare at the broken pieces
and stare

when i was ten i believed kissing was
only between two people deliriously in love.
when i was fifteen, i believed holding hands would
only make me throw up, and when a boy wanted to watch
you watch him play video games, it was considered
romantic.

do puppies fall in love? for my ears are floppy
for you and my tail hasn’t stopped wagging since
november.
if i could be your jellyfish i’d hover between your
bones, tangling my tentacles through your
mane, stinging you with limp
currents.

i’m wishy and washy, crawling through
tie-dye dreams and licking clean pasta
bowls. i always thought second best was
enough, and when i was eighteen bruises were
proof. ideas were stuck in my brain cells. i bit my lips
until dead skin cells tasted like ketchup.

i’m creeping through your marrows,
gnawing, gnawing, gnawing.
******* until my tongue is lead,
aching for your teeth tearing through
my flesh,

i could be your jellyfish. you told me about one that lives
forever.
i’ll keep floating, if you keep
watching.

you expect me to be here.
with no questions.
no complaints.
you assume
my lips will be waiting for you.
and you take me for granted.

darling,
i love you so much.

but i'm suffocating.

i am not always so sweet.
my eyes do not sparkle every time
for you
more times they have watered
unexpectedly

my hands will not always reach for you
they will clench with frustration,
cracking until they are numb

my legs do not want to run to you
every single time
they will go in the opposite direction
until they burn with exhaustion

i want to slap you until
the realization is branded
but then.
i want to kiss your wounds
lick away the pain

i want to scream until my voice
crawls into your veins.
but then.
i want to hold you
so tight. so tight.

darling, my beautiful darling.

you are breaking me.

soon, there will be
no pieces left

your love is my drug.**

oh, hasn't that been done?
darling, i have no floors of glitter
or ear piercing autotune.

just my words.

but your intoxication is clearly visible.
the taste of your tongue
is a buzz that puts alcohol to shame.
your teeth sinking into my body
not all the joints in the world could compare.

your breath into my lips is my drug
your sweat will forever be my drink of choice

withdrawal symptoms
when you are not around.
nights full of holding myself,
hoping it has a piece, somewhere of you.
shivers and sweats, with nothing but
your hallucination to comfort me.

high. you make me so high.
high enough to kiss the stars and say hello
to the moon.
high enough to make me forget every
sliver of worry,
fragment of doubt.

high on your lips. your voice. your bites. your licks. your nibbles.
your touch.
high on your love.
high.
high.
high on you.

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.

like a deer’s head stuffed on shaky walls,
my eyes have become bulged, my tongue sedated.
my hunter wore no gear.
padded quietly underneath the yellow moon.
he found my limbs first, yanking and pulling
while my fingers burned.

my hunter had a smile like LSD,
his lips had lines shaky and uncontrolled.
he pulled me deep, deep, deep into
the forest, between oaks and pines and
the ground tasted like what i wanted to forget.
like blood.
like *****.
like nothing.

my hunter had stroked me.
such. a. prize. such. a. prize. such. a. prize.
he attempted to recite poetry, but
his voice sounded muffled, placing emphasis
on the wrong words.

my hunter wrapped my locks around my throat, and pulled
and yanked and pulled.
it all smelled like fire.
my wrists vomited violet flowers.
i had wanted to show him.

but my hunter chopped. me. up.
such a face. my legs, gushing pink and red and white.
my arms tinged yellow.

my head rests above his bed, and i watch
and watch and watch

my teeth won’t stop chomping

you are like the phone in the pocket
of my skinny jeans.
tight, barely fitting.
always threatening to find
a way
out.

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.

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.

I have been obsessed with staring at people’s ring fingers. I have been obsessed with seeing if there are rings, and if there are, why? And if there isn’t, why? I have been obsessed with the concept of marriage. Of babies. Of living together forever and ever with just one person.

The thought tastes like milk washed down with soap. But I cannot stop staring at people’s hands. I want to ask how they knew. Was there a switch that was flipped? Was there music loud and thudding in their ears? How did they know that when they’re old with wrinkles under their eyes they’ll still want to kiss the other’s lips?

I check off my lovers with a sharpie on my wrists. I wonder if any of them thought I was the one. The sharpie bleeds and stains my shirt. A man told me once he loved me within a month of knowing me. Was that true, never ending love? He left cigarette ash in my car and didn’t know where to put his fingers. He had wanted a house, a kid, a dog.

In coffee shops, in grocery stores, in hallways, I am staring at people’s fingers. Some are smudged, some are dry with peeling skin, some are softly pink, and when I see the golden or silver bands milky soap sits underneath my throat.

I am checking my wrists.

you see, when you first left,
it took such a long time to take out the shards
of glass, and fishing lines, and pieces of paper with
****** drawn hearts, and deflated balloons.
it took such a long time to find a needle and thread and sew all the
wounds.
it took days, months, years. and the stitches.
they were on my arms, legs, stomach, neck.
the scars did not heal until, until,
three years later.
you see, i put some scar cream. tried different
foundations.
placed different men’s hands and covered the scars with
bellowed ideas and bruises.


the scars have started bleeding, opened like
ripe tomatoes.
i do not have enough hands to cover them,
so i think i’ll sit here
until the bed soaks through.

i wanted to dissolve with you.
through the blankets. the sheets.
the mattress. the floor boards.
the ground.

until we were at the center of the universe

you slide in. you glide out.
you breathe me in. you breathe me out.
alcohol. merciless tango.
cotton candy haze
with a slight touch of skittles.
as this cloud enters me,
the fog playing a heart wrenching lullaby.
touch me. touch me.
bite my lips,
my eyes roll back.
hold me tighter,
watch me sail away.
run them fingers through my hair,
pull out daisies and butterflies.
touch me. touch me.
i'll explode.
another hit
i'm in the atmosphere
your skin tastes like salvation
and i want more. more.
your eyes. my sea.
my thundering sea.
i want to swim.
far.
far.
every color. like a painting.
fresh ink.
and i'm laughing.
i cannot breathe.
i cannot feel.
except for you and your body.
except for your love
spilled upon my canvas
seeping into my follicles
i am your work.
your piece of art.
and god, i'm ******* beautiful.

you make me

so unbelievably happy.

you make me

so unbelievably sad.

and i wish i could understand

how one person

can lift me to the stars

and then

hurl me to the darkest part

of the ocean.

within my guts, perhaps there is no longer
slivers of withdrawal, of doubt,
but i can only wonder why i keep envisioning
my ****** gums,
stained like smashed cherries.
i know i love you, but you are now
the static pieces of glass in my palms
and i must be patient, but it is sinking
on the back of my tongue, and i am attempting
not to choke, not to swallow
so my insides are not shredded.
i would shred my skin and take my veins,
tie it together into bows, or boy scout knots,
if i knew i could curve your lips.
i would hang the veins inside your room,
connecting bits and pieces of my eyelashes,
if if if i knew it would lift you up from
tomorrow.
but i am not the girl who can tear herself in and out,
because my bits have gone already.

i know i love you, but i am so tired.
so tired. so tired.
i can't blame you, i can't bite your cheeks until
it sits like butterflies in your spine.

i do not know how to hold a shaking room.

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.

"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.

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.