skulls can be flower pots,
but people can't be flowers —
the brain is not soil fit
to host something beautiful.
talk to me without the eggshells in your mouth;
let them fall beneath your feet instead,
walk them the trail to my broken heart.
a bloodstream full of petals
turns my pulse into a **** —
i'm trying to yank it out of me as we speak.

glitter touch my cheeks,
glitter spiders make webs of my veins.
i turn streetlights upside down
and drink up the neon —
i want my belly to spark and sweat
and glow.
i love you when you're the moon
and less when you're the sun —
i can only stare so
when you have darkness
we can't share with them.

a body is a temple, a body is a church,
a body is leather, black,
is curling fingers into sand,
is a bra tossed across the headboard,
as a lace crucifix.
a body is chewed gum sitting like a pebble
under the roof of my mouth;
is worthless when not in a bed,
when not trying to inhale another one
as crumbs.

the syntax of rosebuds
leaves my lips full of thorns;
my pallor has drained into
a puddle at your feet.

i live in a bathtub
that's too small and tight
for my little body —
this is not a party,
but a broken mirror and a handful of sour patch kids,
and i haven't tasted you since fifty-four days were zero.

can we have just a night
where that's all i do?
and my tongue can become ship
and your thighs become pacific;
give to me what i never wanted
to want
to take from you.

ask me my type,
and i'll tell you, "girls who'll break my heart."