i.
Eve has hands like a wrecked garden: dirt caked under her fingernails, wild and vicious and thorn-covered; wild and sunstruck and crawling. She presses her palms into the grass underneath the orchards and prays a blasphemy.

ii.
This is how it goes: there is always a boy, or maybe a snake. There is a time before, with the darkness so whole and absolute it chokes, and there is a time after, with burning light and shame so heavy it puts you on your knees.
This is how it goes: your summerborn cheeks flushed but your eyes cold and barren and wintered.
This is how it goes: you are made from bones that never settled into the earth.

iii.
The apples hanging from the trees have gone nearly overripe and heavy, bending from the boughs and flushed red.
Eve has a mouth sticky-sweet and soft, a body like a rosebush in bloom.
Eve has a bird's nest of hair that calls home only vultures.
This is how it goes: there is always a hunger for more.

iv.
Eve presses her palms against the planes of her stomach, against the soft curves the moon has smoothed onto her.
Eve presses her palms into the grass and howls: *"I will not bear you fruit."

you remember, baby?
summer nights where the cicadas screamed
until they were loved & our heads felt like
eggs they cracked on the asphalt to prove a point.

aspirin & coke.

your body the puzzle I left unfinished
in july.

to the monsters under my bed//

i see all of you. in this distorted pink glow, i see you. you whisper at night when i’m wrapped in blankets and my toes are cold. you say things. you creep into my mind and whisper tainted words that are not sweet nothings, but bitter everythings. i do not dream. i become my fears, shattering mirrors so i do not have to see them. i don’t have to see myself.

you are these battle scars, and the reason i am ashamed of them. you are the soft melody with harsh words and you’re on repeat. you’re ******* relentless.

when i was younger, you stayed in my bedroom and came out at night to taunt me. you’re everywhere now. your insults are the godforsaken soundtrack i’m living with.

living. what’s that mean? i sometimes wish i could carve strength from my bones, and wear it around my neck. i slide in and out of the present. no one notices, and the only relic that i bring from this time travel is an ugly one.

i remember being touched on my upper thigh/hands on my face/fear/living in the eyes of the sun/nothing. i remember nothing.

i hate you.

i hate the taste of damp salt. i miss the key to my heart being copied and handed to those who wanted to explore it. i don’t miss the house parties held there by the undeserving. the mess left. the cleaning process. attempting to heal.

some days i awoke and all of your eyes were staring into mine. it did not feel like looking at the stars. it felt like a glimpse of hell. a swear word. a sea of red.

i see all of you. but that doesn't mean that i accept you. in this distorted pink glow, i see you. and you’re not just under my bed.

i. before this the trees were alight & the hardwood was tracked with mud. down at the riverbank i embrace a golem made living flesh. her skin when she touches me leaves silt & grief. i grab both of her hands and call this the world. i grab both of her hands and drown them in the river.

ii. this softest horror that creeps in my bones, it begs of me to listen
& i do -

cause: you call me pretty. you beg me to sit in your open palm. you cover my eyes. sloppily, with your fingers. you tell me to be still. you hold me still. you hold my breath. you hold a knife to my throat. it’s not a knife. i’ve told this story before. it’s not a knife.

effect: you call me pretty.
you gut me like a fish.

iii. the stone-girl who lives inside the mirror & begs for scraps asks me how to go home. the showerhead screams. the girl has my eyes but only when i’m not blinking. she has no hands. i say nothing. someone is screaming. she hangs her head in her hands. the water is too hot. the lights keep blinking. i feel everything & nothing. she says nothing, and somehow it is worse.
nausea.
nausea.
nausea.

ad nauseaum.

iv. the house does not fall apart but it is a close thing. the roof is leaking. everything is covered in dust. i fill my cupped hands to overflowing & the first layers of dirt chip away. i pry them apart & open. i put my wrists on right-side up. i excavate. i perform with or without anaesthesia. the girl claps. i take a bow.

v. the wind smells clean & of wet earth. i dig up the body in the front yard. my/her hands tug dandelions out of the grass.

we lay in silence.

our hands touch,
flinchless.

Sometimes walking against the wind is the only way to get home