i'm sorry that all i can give you
doesn't include wanting you around

only missing the times that i did

last night, i slept in your
blue plaid pajama pants
and woke up with them,
and myself, soaked in
period blood.
i cleaned myself off,
cleaned my bedroom up,
and found an old towel
under my bed that we
used to use to wipe off
whatever mess we made
on top of it.
i melted in a bathtub full
of too-hot water and
scented bubbles while
the song my grandfather
used to sing to me as a
lullaby overpowered
any thought i had about
impurity and sin.

i'm trying to figure out
how many times the words
i can't do this to myself anymore
will run through my head
before i give in to the voices
fighting back with, "you're so alone."

you'll see him again-
different face, a different name,
same situation allowing you
your make believe fairy tales
starting with an innocent smile
and ending with empty veins
spilled on the bathroom floor-
you can't clean that up, but
at least you got to be held
during all the chaos.

this is me, learning
what the space between
never and again
really looks like.

you were so angry that
you couldn't even speak
and i got so upset that i
ran to the bathroom to *****
and as i clutched porcelain
you rubbed my back
then walked me to the kitchen
to refill our cups with more
coke and whiskey, and we drank
and never talked about it again

I dream mostly
in flowers and
in the shape of
your words
pressed quietly
into the skin
behind my right
ear.

somehow
between facebook posts
and blankets tied around my neck
drunkenly running through the house
i keep finding myself
playing the heroine
to your hero.

i prefer rainfall over
sunshine, and maybe that
explains why i'd choose
you over anyone else.
i always hope that
it's a beautiful day
wherever you are, and
all i ever want to do
is kiss your spine and
never apologize again
but my lips have yet to meet
the skin on your back
and for that
i am sorry.

i am made of sin,
you're the only innocent
god i believe in.