I know you’re trying to forget
The lonely words we spilled
With no discussion of repercussions;
Phrases that clung to our skin
And dirtied our souls.

I don’t know if I regret it,
But the memory lingers.
You told me that you would kiss
My lips, my neck, my hips
And that you longed for the touch
Of my gentle fingertips.
We overwhelmed ourselves;
A ****** of desire with no way out.
We were the Apocalypse.

We retreated to our own lives,
Our own beds, our own friends.
I asked how you felt, where we stood now;
And you left me to wonder
Alone.

No matter how many showers I take,
I can’t cleanse myself
Of the hold you gained on me
With your gilded words late that night.

I know you’re trying to forget.

Sofa to sofa,
I lie to therapists,
Sinning my way through each day.

I pin up my cheeks with safety pins,
Paint my eyelashes with tar,
Stain my cheeks with rose petals,
Comb my hair with thorns.

Climbing trees in the dead of night
Just to be closer to the moon,
I dangle precariously from the branches.

I am held together by glue and staples and
purple construction paper.

I fear not death, but life.
I am tattered and torn,
flammable and too close to flames,
slow-roasting.

I am a never-ending *** of coffee,
a broken alarm clock,
the warm side of a pillow,
the empty tube of toothpaste,
an unsolved crossword puzzle written in pen.

I fear not death, but life without poetry.

I’m sorry if I cry when I smell whiskey on your breath.
It’s a natural habit, you see.

All the times she kissed my forehead,
Her lips engraving the need for sobriety in my brain,
I smelled it.

In all the bruised knees and torn curtains,
The cigarette smoke and shattered glasses,
The broken doors and scratched paint,
Her dried blood and my adolescent tears,
I smelled it.

I turned my lights out so she wouldn’t know I was awake.
I’m sorry if I cry when I smell whiskey on your breath.
It’s a natural habit, you see.

Dragon breath swirls in the shadow of a pale, clouded moon,
Fresh winter freezes the capillaries in my rosy cheeks,
Dead leaves rustle under the footsteps of a hidden creature of darkness,
The stars gaze upon me, gawking at my pathetic poetry,
The wind whistles its final tune,
And the only null to my fear rests in the assurance
That the sun will rise again in the morning.

When daisies sprout from your palms,
Do not take clippers to them.
Do not tear them out with rage and disgust,
For they are beautiful.

You see only their imperfections,
The quiet reflections of you.

I will tend to them for you,
If you cannot bear to look.
I will water them with care, not with tears.
I will feed them with my love, not poison.
I will support them until they are strong enough to stand up on their own.
We mustn’t let them wilt.

June will come,
And I’ll be gone.

The rest is up to you.