sticky-sweet sequin queen, popping vicodin through cherry red lips backstage, getting ready to sweat out all of those feelings you never got to share with that pretty boy because you wouldn’t let his tongue out from between your teeth long enough to tell him you loved him for something more than the way he grabbed your hair in his hands when you gave him a sugar rush.

thigh-high angel, all bruised knees and protruding hipbones, lace bras and black eyeliner just the way he likes it — it’s okay if the bags under your eyes get a little darker, if it means you get to stay up all night listening to him talk about what he’d do to you and your babydoll skin in candy coated words that linger on his lips like lollipop stains.

he’ll tell you about all of the times he ate so many sweets, they almost killed him; about when he had another rose of a girl, and how you’re just so young in comparison. neither of you will have done anything right in so long that you can’t imagine this’ll hurt. let yourself melt in his mouth until there’s nothing left of you.

there is another life beyond this one, i’m sure of it — in which the floor i step on after i first get out of bed doesn’t feel so menacing, in which doors are built much lighter and easier to open, in which the roses don’t wilt as quickly, and in which it doesn’t hurt so much when their petals fall, because i know without a doubt that new, brighter ones will be taking their place.

i lie in bed and dream of that life far more than i’d care to admit. i use it as a barrier between myself and the floor that intimidates me so. i use the strength of my desire to live it to open all of the heavy doors i encounter during my days that taste so mundane in comparison to the vanilla-and-honey world i’ve promised the weaker parts of myself, lest they hold on just a bit longer. i steal roses from other people’s gardens and bring them home with me to keep as mementos, as reminders that there are so many stories being told beside my own, and that i’m welcome to take hold of the pen from the flow i’ve always gone with and start writing this life for myself.

it’s something you learn to love
the blinding lights and the migraines and the burn in your stomach
maybe it’s hunger, maybe it’s alcohol, who knows
they both work the same
your hands can’t find a place to stay they’re just shaking and your breath is shaking and you sway from side to side because all of the balance is gone now, i don’t know where it went, i tried looking for it and then i got bored so i gave up and here we are
you haven’t eaten in 20 hours
i haven’t eaten in 20 hours
i thought i was better but i never get better
there’s no getting better
i thought my first love was the boy with dark hair and long fingers, but it looks like i was wrong again
it was “how did you lose so much weight” and hipbones sticking so far out that there was a two inch gap between my stomach and the band of my pants and not knowing what anyone around me was saying
i don’t care about what anyone is ******* saying
i don’t know what to say to anyone i don’t know how to act
i don’t think anymore, i don’t need to think anymore
i’ve developed a habit of only drinking when i’ve eaten 800 calories or less
the alcohol works quicker that way and you don’t have to take in too many calories by the end of the day
it’s the smartest thing i’ve ever done
it’s my two favorite feelings at once

we were pink and blue cotton candy girls surrounded by greenery and burning wood and we tip-toed past the sleeping grownups so we could tell each other secrets in the attic and hope that no one heard the creaking floorboards.

he injected himself with chemicals until his body was too tired to fight with him anymore and he followed the sound of the wind when the earth that we treaded so lightly on asked him to come home; we gave all of the pieces of him that he left behind to the roots of the tree our parents planted in the back of our a-frame palace and it is comforting to know that we all still grow together in its branches, whether we are there or not. our words wrapped themselves around the leaves of the woods we gave our hearts to.

i can remember the way my eyes stung and how the wet cloth felt on my face when a much smaller version of myself stood on the balcony underneath the stars i still thought were alive while my father put out the fire downstairs. it was quite jarring when i finally grew older and realized he was usually the one to strike the match.

i’m not sure that there’s such a thing as heaven, but at least i’m certain on what i’d like mine to be like. i hope death is like waking up next to my mother to the glow of sunlight filtering itself through long, frilly, pink curtains and the sound of the boys laughing over breakfast. i hope it looks like me and my blood dancing around red and green firecrackers on summer nights. i hope it’s eating peaches on the porch on a warm, breezy morning with people who haven’t hurt me yet. i hope it’s scraped knees and grass stains and afternoons spent on swing sets. i hope it feels like home.

i’ve never had feelings for anyone who could be good for me. i’ve never been interested in someone where a good, healthy relationship could’ve resulted, and maybe that’s why i’m so jaded, because everyone i’ve ever liked has just been a distraction or a house on fire— someone i know i shouldn’t be involved with, but i’ll give myself just a few more days to run around frantically with my hands over my eyes, peaking through the cracks between my fingers, searching for things i know i don’t really need, and then i’ll dash out and run down the driveway and the smog will linger for a little while, and the neighbors will complain, and i’ll sit on the curb with my forehead on my knees, holding nothing but intangible regret. next, i’ll either get over it, or obsessively think about him and the ashes smudged on the inside of my eyelids for longer than my sanity. i’ve never really liked someone and been able to daydream about the real possibility of us turning into something greater; of tire swings and painted mailboxes and overgrown, green lawns. it’s always been pretending and fake hope and melodramatic doom. i think it’s messed up my perception of having feelings for someone, because i can never take it seriously— either i know he’s not right for me, or i know the circumstances prohibit the possibility of us. it makes me never want to give anyone a chance (i can’t even see anyone worth chance-giving) because i know how it ends. i don’t like having this closed off heart so early on; i’m too young to be this bitter.

i will never love you as much as i love the silence of my neighborhood right now that reminds me that although it's lovely not to hear from my usually loud neighbors, it's gruesome to hear absolutely nothing from you. the sound of your voice is more comforting than any quiet. i find more peace in your laugh than anything.

i will never love you as much as i love the snow covering the ground. this may be because i am so used to the feeling of frostbite that i have become numb to the pain and i am more grateful for the loss of my sensitivity than i am for the loss of your toxicity.
i still hope you know that neither i or the snow intended to harm you and we apologize if we did, although i'm not sure what the **** i could have possibly done but care about you more than i knew i ever could.

i will never love you as much as i love flowers and my books and the feeling of cold water running over freezing hands and green tea settling in an empty stomach and watching children truly enjoy the limited years they have until their first heartbreak when they stop finding joy in the little things and think it can only be found in the mouths of people who fed them lies like you fed me promises but in reality their tongues are snakes and their saliva is venom and they are as dangerous as the amount of alcohol they put in their bodies so they can feel something or maybe they don't want to feel anything at all because these cuts are not wounds on our knees that can be healed with bandages and antibiotic ointments. these are cuts on our wrists as deep as the sea would we be willing to drown in for someone who will never feel the same way for us as we do them and our upper thighs that we wish were as thin as our hearts.

i will never love you as much as i love the smell of old paper and stage lights and pointe shoes and gliding through the air or across a wooden floor of the dance studio i feel terrible for betraying by thinking i could find a home in you when my home is in the mirrors that i criticize my body i should have never let you defile in and the floor that has always caught me when i felt i was falling over the edge even when i didn't want it to because all i wanted was you.

i will always try to love myself more than you loved me