my brain is a slow clap
thunder easy bold slaps
for when you feel nothing
for when you feel it all

say please this begging

sexts to self:

-stroke me-
the ******* of your words
the day you realized this felt good
the different things that could make you feel it
the night you realized this could fix food
you said you would rather feel that pain in bed
the courage to slouch on your chair and not be worried of what was there

and when i say i love my thighs the most he looks at the scars.
does he know i love them because they’ve got the most?

last week she reclaimed vietnamese food.
this is a process and every now and then
she checks in with me.

haven’t talked to him in a while.
saw him on the treadmill yesterday--
i was happy he was not.

i miss him.
(says she misses him)

says she finally reclaimed her own bed.
says he is no longer the smell in her pillows the first thought in her head.
further from her mind each morning
new lovers have ways of stalling mourning
or maybe he has already been put away.

continuation finds new ways of forming.

lay out my bones for the ready

to be slowly devoured

piece

by

piece

foaming at the mouth, saliva

dripping

onto maroon carpets


how do i keep from being forgotten

if i am a river

then i want all my curves to reach you
lap at your sides
gentle awakening in the midst of mist

if i am a river

then he is a tree
strong and wielding
empty with the insects that have devoured—
tiny memento-filled mites digging little holes
within
his
demeanor.

i got stuck on the idea that forever with you meant
hearing your body calling
my person.

and i have never thought of arson
but i’ve got a mind to set you aflame.

i told my crystals your name.

a final memorial to the tired heart.
the weary, out-of-breath soul.
a final memorial to the love that is real but needs to be put to rest.
resting underneath floral sheets is the sweetness of you.
the image that is left, at least.
nestled under the cold blanket of winter impending is the grandeur of our erasure.
and every time i get ready to incinerate the loving bones of what we were, you remind me of timelines and ties and i regret letting go.
when i am ready to tuck you away on a shelf in my closet, you blow the dust off empty promises and i pick you up again.
the toy that is played with another day.
and for once, you are not the toy in the situation, but instead, the greedy grasp of a spoiled child with too many choices for play.
and too often, i find i am the last to be picked.