her breath fogs my skin
like warmth on glass-
when did my bones become this fragile;
if she pushes too hard,
when will i shatter?
she slips her fingers between mine
and we hold hands-
as simple as breathing;
i am not known to be good at breathing,
no, the day i remember how to breathe,
will that be the day i drown?
she leaves handprints on my arms
i am a broken mirror-
where am i? i cannot wipe her away;
fingerprints on my surface,
memories that cloud the glass,
has anyone ever seen me in plain sight?
she bites too hard
they stare at the bruises-
as she shifts from lover to abuser,
will my hands stop shaking,
when did my house become haunted?
when will i

shatter?

she has six hands and they are all holding me,
i am being strangled.
my lungs are bent, gasping,
she whispers in my ear:
“the crash is coming. no air can save you.”

she has eight eyes and they are never blinking,
tarantula hairs.
my blood is running a marathon, running,
i beg her to run away
but she lives where i live. i am not willing to die just to silence her.

she leads me to the rooftop,
tells me to put the dirt on.
my lungs’ scream is an axe, hacking,
all the walls are closing
she holds a vacuum to my lips.

she crouches beside me,
i hear her hissing mutters.
she is like a tsunami, everything,
she wears a crumbling rooftop like it is a crown
she sits on my head and holds my throat.

she tempts me to the edge of the highway,
everyone blurs together.
my head is like a broken hourglass, spilling everywhere,
brains look the same until they hit the windshield
my splatter, but she is not silenced.