We split ear buds on
the smooth rhythmic train ride of
my hips against yours.

his hair,
light against your neck, like a feather.

your lips,
parted and chapped,
haven't been touched in days.

his hands,
pressing sporadically into your skin,
almost morse code for
"i'm going to leave you tonight."

you knew
you knew
you knew,
but it didn't hurt like you thought it would.

after all,
how could you resent something
so beautiful?
how could you regret something
so real?

I wish I could remember those digits on your dorm room
—of the third floor of a building
I only visited twice—
Because I would have written
three-hundred-something reasons
of why I wish I could have forgotten them.

It felt good to finally give in

It's not morning sickness if it only happens when I wake up next to you,

baby.

your hands are a double edged
sword, but i am learning
how to lace my skin with steel
and you can not
cut me
any
more

Thinking about life from
my bathroom floor.
My carpeted bathroom floor
that I can't get all the
dirt and mildew and rot from.
Just like my mind and soul,
filled with all the deplorable **** that
I can't forget.
     Bad memories, and
     past mistakes, and
     all the wrong people, and
     destitute trains of thought.
I'm trying not to hate myself from
my bathroom floor.
I don't think it's working.
From a bit away,
I look fine,
          just like my bathroom floor.
Up close,
I'm a melting *** of mess,
          just like my bathroom floor.