Endless seconds spent with you
curled under stark red sheets
replaying one scratched disc.
The tired dregs of August,
September, October,
before tree lots replaced pumpkin patches
and my pillow became hers.

The grinning man, informing me that I taste like candy,
The ripped bag of candy, purchased yesterday from store number four of our search,
The ancient truck, packed already with what remains of ten weeks,
The bruises, displayed proudly for fifteen more hours,
The eight o’clock train, rattling my kitchen window,
The last pink sunset, the ending of our life, the resumption of his and of mine.

rupi kaur writes that loving with the knowledge that you are not good enough is selfish,
and to that i say let me be selfish,
just this once.
i have suffocated my joy and buried my despair for too many men.
please let me try to show this one
how much he means to me.

in the timbre of my voice after six ounces of bacardi and red bull,
in the gnawing of my stomach's hunger when my mind is empty,
in the curve of my abdomen as your hand rests upon it,
in the salt of my tears on nights when your rejection is too much, too much.