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.

"Your father and I almost had an affair. I thought it was so…romantic!"

My food lingers inside my intestines, attempting to slither back through my throat and wade on my tongue.

The only time I remember my parents sleeping in the same bed was when I was six, and that memory is fuzzy, like fumbling to the bathroom in the dark. I hit corners and trip over my own feet. I remember crawling between the two of them.

And the next memory is my mom in her bed, my father in his. They are not happy with each other.

They are not in love.

The memory after that is both of them yelling. Screaming. Words that are acid filled and burn my flesh.

The memory after is my father being drunk and my mother throwing objects at already stained walls.

The memory after that is me attempting to escape a house I could not find a home in. My mother tearing through my ribs until my plasma trickled down my arms. My father is sober, but sad.

My mother touches my father’s hand,

And I must excuse myself so I can run to the bathroom and punch the mirror until I see the shards poking through my knuckles and feel nothing but pain.

*Lovesinotrealloveisnotrealloveisnotreal.

"God, you can be so sensitive sometimes."

I want to wear a rock-hard shell plate upon my breastbone, so words and dumb feelings would deflect instead of pierce straight through. If I could I would travel all the oceans and drown inside each and everyone of them until I had nothing but sea salt and a mermaids kiss. I wish instead of tears I would laugh because everyone always told me how crying is for weaklings.

Instead I let your words slice me into raw pieces of meat. Instead I struggle to find air in a room that is too humid. Instead I make believe that you are what I need to survive.

Instead I am too sensitive. And too weak to leave you.

i might not believe in a higher power,
but jesus i think i see heaven
when your lips erupt
over
me.

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.

it’s fine, i’ll find company within
my strands.
pretty girls are made to wait
for boys with impatient ribs.
it’s fine, i’ll scratch until my
skin bleeds the right way.
pretty girls are built to apprehend
every assault.
it’s fine, i’ll pace my room until posters merge.
pretty girls are assembled to bite
their lips
and wear bruised knees.
it’s fine,
because all boys let me do is
wait.
and i don’t know if i’m one of those
pretty girls,
but i sure know boys will continue
throwing me into the
sea.

it has been two and a half months
(really it’s been seven years, three months,
fifteen days, twelve hours, five minutes and thirty-three
seconds)

but my jacket is back.
(except it smells like you)

acoustic guitar, the redolence of ****
and mistakes pungent in the sort of summer air.

but my jacket is back.
(except it tastes like you)

i felt your footsteps, imagined the way your fingers
held my hair, tight, yanking. a doll with loose threads.

but my jacket is back.
(except it looks like you)

your teeth reminded me of the oceans i could never find,
your eyelashes like razors begging to slice me open.

but my jacket is back.
(except it feels like you)

it felt heavy in my bruised hands, your hug
was a boa constrictor killing prey. main course.(dessert)

but my jacket is back.
yet when i wear it,
all i can think is you mounting, hands
rigid, your fingers venom.

i cannot breathe with it on

"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.

one day maybe, you’ll let me write my poems upon your skin,
let the words, like vines, trickle and tingle through your veins, itch and scab upon your pores.
so, whenever you’re sad, whenever you’re lonely,
you can see the ink,
and know i will be there, even when it fades.

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.