i don’t think there are things quite like this:
quite like ocean-breathing. quite like soft
hearts and softer fingers. quite like hands
strong and hair pulled.
kiss me until i forget her name. push me
on my knees in the hallway—breathe me;
breathe me; breathe me.
i don’t think there are things quite like this:
quite like “take it off”. quite like “****, ****,
you’re—”. quite like “how much **** would
you get for this hickey?”.
give me mouth to neck to hands to back.
give me soft, give me softer, harder. give
me all teeth, all fingernails, all scratch and
no soothe.
i’m not drunk but i might as well be; you
have never been an instrument i knew how
to play well enough to perform. i’m on my
knees and then not anymore and i’m not
one for praying but i feel like this is the
moment i ask god when i turned into
something so close to an exit wound
even my mother wouldn’t recognise me
anymore.
i don’t think there are things quite like this:
quite like trembling so hard the china might
scatter on the floor like ashes. quite like
“i’m not just using you”. quite like whispers
so soft they seem to go up in smoke.
he kisses my neck and i go weak in the knees
but i feel like i would be strong enough to
withstand a hurricane like this. he kisses
my neck and his hand is on my hip and
i think about how sometimes a flood brings
more than it takes away and i think
that’s you. i think that’s you. sometimes
i wonder if i could be like that for you
too.
you see, i don’t think there are things
quite like this:
quite like shaking but still. quite like
cold but willing. quite like you.

look,
she will never tell you her deepest secrets or kiss you quite long enough to feel whole. and some nights she will sneak out of bed and yell when you follow her, because there are nights when she needs to breathe and there have been too many fires too close to her throat lately.
let her go. tell her you know about thunderstorms, about storms so rough you seem to topple over at the thought of them—tell her, you too, have felt the earth shake beneath the soles of your feet a few times too many to stay still.
you don’t have to kiss her scars. you just have to kiss her.
boy, on good days, take her by her bruised hands and lead her to a place where you have always found sanctuary. kiss her then. she will trace your bones with her tongue and lay her hand on your chest to check if you’re hollow. kiss her then. sometimes she will smoke to fill herself with something else than pain. kiss her then.
look: when she trembles so loud you can hear her empty bones rattle, place one hand in her hair and one on her hip and kiss her. kiss her until she stills. being an avalanche like her is exhausting, but sometimes she just won’t know how to stop it.
when she falls asleep on the couch again, know that she is not avoiding you. she’s avoiding the emptiness of having you so close she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to touch yet. she doesn’t know if she earned it yet. and when you see her do her workout routine twice, it’s because the couch is giving her trouble sleeping—even more than the bed did. she hopes she will be too tired to care this way.
take her by the hand again. take her to bed. place her head on your chest. show her it’s alright to touch.
when she tells you she’s been counting the cracks in the ceiling because her head is filled with ideas of death and despair, repaint it. tell her this is a new colour for new thoughts and new beginnings. cover her eyes. kiss her eyelids. tell her they don’t always filter light but they don’t have to. tell her it’s alright to be an avalanche. tell her it’s alright to be an avalanche.
but remember this: when you are ready to fall to your knees, she will be there. when you feel the earth tremble beneath your feet, she will be there. and when your hands shake so much you don’t think you can hold her anymore, she will be there.
there is so much more to her than just something to hold. she’s not just this anger, she’s not just this closeness in her veins that makes you forget the way home, she is so much more than just gritting teeth and letting it go.
when you are ready to fall, she will always be there to catch you. remember: she knows the ripple of hurt that tears through your body so violently—she knows how it feels. she has felt it herself. when you tremble, she will make you still. when you tremble, she will make you still.
this is not just about her. this is about you, too. about the cracks in your ceiling. about your avalanche. realise that she understands. when you lay your head on her chest to check if she is hollow, realise she knows exactly what you’re doing. when you ask her to pass the cigarette, realise that she too, knows how it feels to fill yourself with something besides pain.
oh sweetheart, when the vastness of her love makes you agoraphobic, she will take you to the place she loves most and kiss you. she will kiss you breathless. don’t you know it’s in her blood to take care of you?

open up your
veins show me
your blood all
I ever wanted
was to
breathe—you—in
baby make my
heart
stop

It's midnight.
Outside, people are singing a birthday song for one of my neighbours.
Inside, I have been taking an ice cold shower for over an hour because it's just as painful as cutting open my skin when I turn the water scalding hot every fifteen minutes, but it doesn't leave any scars.
My phone died. The shrink was trying to talk me out of it and into my own bed, promised he wouldn't leave, wouldn't leave me alone, not him, not this time. He said he would help me through it. I believed him. Still do. I guess I'll find out if that's stupid. Later. When he leaves.
Skin was just talking. She's good at that. She's always been good at that. The way her words wrap around everything bad in my head and suffocate it makes me want to curl up and sleep everything off.
Lumberjack just... just was. I don't know how he knew. He just did. Sometimes I wish I could talk to him.
But there's a reason I pray cold showers will mimic the rain and wash everything away. There's a reason for every faint line on my legs, my arms, my stomach.
I say: Crying is for the weak.
Shrink says: Crying is for those who deal. It's for people who've been strong.
I deal in my own way. It's the only way that seems to work. The only way I can think of. Nothing soothes better than red drops and raindrops.
I should crawl into bed. I should never come out again. I should die here, on the bathroom floor, surrounded by tiles and soap and cold water. I should die somewhere else, somewhere safe, somewhere private. I should seek out an empty spot and slit my wrists. How do you slit your second wrist, anyway? I read that most people pass out before they can make the most damaging cut.
No. I should crawl into bed. There's no reason for thirteen. There's no reason for blood, or death, or my mother crying. There's no reason for flowers or funerals or picking out your best suit.

It's 1AM. I'm still in the shower.

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS LEAVING—THERE IS ONLY FIRE NOW. CALL ME THE BUILDER OF CITIES THAT DROWN. CALL ME THE FOUNDER OF THE NOTHING. I DON’T CARE. I DON’T CARE.
I STOPPED CARING ABOUT YOUR TREES AND ROOTS AND FLOWERS THE DAY YOU TOLD ME I WOULD NEVER BE MORE THAN HANDS HELD UP IN DEFENSE. THE DAY YOU TOLD ME I WOULD NEVER LOVE ANYTHING MORE THAN I LOVED THE SUN.
LET ME TELL YOU THIS, BABY, I AM NOT DEAD. I AM NOT DEAD. I AM NOT DEAD. I AM NOT DEAD. NO MATTER HOW MANY PEOPLE YOU LIKE TO TRICK INTO THINKING I AM, OR WAS, OR WILL BE. I AM NOT. I AM NOT A PUPPET, EITHER, AND EVEN IF I WAS, DARLING, YOU WOULD NOT BE THE ONE HOLDING ONTO THE STRINGS. NOT ANYMORE. NOT ANYMORE.
I AM DIFFERENT NOW; STRONGER, HANDS LESS LIKELY TO GRAB AND HOLD, KNEES MORE LIKELY TO KEEP ME FROM FALLING. I’VE BEEN TAUGHT HOW TO STEP AWAY FROM BEING A PERSON; I’VE BEEN TAUGHT HOW TO BECOME SOMETHING LESS, SOMETHING MORE.

to the people who have seen more blades in blood splattered bathroom sinks than those in shoulders, i say
you beautiful bright light; you founder of cities that celebrate; you body full of black and ivory piano keys—
cover yourself in positivity, stop cutting yourself and start cutting strings with those who make you, with those who look at you like you're something to be ashamed of.
somewhere, in a hospital, a woman dies while giving birth. you tell yourself that she is stronger than you, more deserving of a life, that you would want to change places.
don't.
death of others doesn't justify yours.
to the people who have seen more blades in blood splattered bathroom sinks than those in shoulders, i say
i’m sorry.

This is not about him. This is about me. This is about the girl who told, about the girl who watched, and smiled, and called me her best friend and then turned around and just talked. This is about the girl that talked.
This is about burning letters and wearing hoodies and fallen leaves on the floor and New Year’s calls and tears. This is about fire. It’s also about me.
Seven days. Seven days. I told her on the fifth and she told her boyfriend on the sixth.

Don’t tell him. Don’t tell him.

                                                         I won’t.

I am not interested in more lies, in more *******, in more apologies. I am not interested in you. I stopped being interested in you the moment your ******* boyfriend told my not-boyfriend that he and I were a thing. When did that choice become yours? WHEN DID THAT CHOICE BECOME YOURS?

CALL ME A ***** FOR DOING THIS. CALL ME A ***** FOR RUINING BUILDINGS AND BUILDING CITIES AND MAKING THIS ABOUT FIRE. CALL ME A ***** FOR MAKING THIS A BLAZE. YOU DID NOT HAVE THE RIGHT TO. YOU DID NOT HAVE THE RIGHT TO LIGHT THE MATCH.
STAY AWAY FROM THE CIGARETTES, STAY AWAY FROM THE CIGARETTES. CALL ME A *****, CALL ME A ******* *****. I DON’T CARE. I DON’T CARE. THIS WAS NOT YOUR CALL TO MAKE.
I WOULD HAVE LIT THE MATCH WHEN I WAS READY. I WOULD HAVE LIT THE ******* MATCH WHEN I WAS READY, BECAUSE FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MY ******* LIFE, DARLING, THIS WAS ABOUT ME.

YOU MADE IT ABOUT HIM. YOU MADE IT ABOUT HIM. I DID NOT CONSENT TO HAVING THREE PEOPLE IN A RELATIONSHIP, SO WHY ARE YOU HERE? ACTUALLY, I DID NOT EVEN CONSENT TO HAVING A RELATIONSHIP.

YOU LIT THE FIRE, YOU LIT THE ******* FIRE AND I AM DONE. PAINT MY NAME IN BLOOD ON THE REMNANTS OF THE CITIES I BURNED. I DON’T CARE.

THIS WAS NOT ABOUT ME. THIS WASN’T EVEN ABOUT HIM. YOU—YOU MADE THIS ABOUT YOU.