Do you remember the fire pit night?
Flames erupting to the stars
And that is when I placed my trust in you
and you, in me.
You didn't realize
I was aware of the line at the time-
that very fine line that defined everything.
He was mine- a ring to prove no crossing.
You had your own,
And I knew of that line as well
I found comfort in that line
I found innocent comfort in yours after you stole mine.

Filthy.
I recall feeling filthy.
How did you feel?
I never asked you.
I didn't care.
Heartless *****.
*******.
I never spoke of it.

My drunk, unbalanced feet paced to the door
and as my hand reached the ****
I climbed from my body to the air above
watching my physical self
swing the door open-
not abruptly.
I didn't have the confidence for that.
I didn't have the stomach, either.
But the instant I felt the smooth lines of the door,
and the faint, callous whispering
it was too late.
I was in.
You were on your knees,
straddling.
******* obvious-
he always said you had a wonderful chest.

I wonder how you tasted to him.
I also wonder how he felt to you.
Was he better than your own?
Did he ******* like your lover did?
Merciless woman.

I remember running after that.
Hands shaking to turn the key in an F150.
Screaming in my head before it hit my vocals.
Erupting, falling, shattering, crashing
Uncontrollable fragments of me thrown around the truck.
I remember my only rational thought
"How fast can this truck go?
How quick would that death be?"

I did not face it-
you were not worth it.

I held your lover in my arms.
You couldn't tell him
I DID.
Disheveled and helpless,
is that what I looked like?
I felt his tears and shaky breaths
turn to anger
and as he ****** fists into the wall
and cursed the God he believed in
I watched as his world falled apart, too.
You weren't there for him.
*It was the third time my entire life I've seen a man cry.

I told him I've never enjoyed *** before him*
parts of that are true

but parts still remind me of *** in my hair
and ***** pictures
and feeling his smile inside me at 14.
The taste of his mouth eludes me
I remember it was sweet.
Everything was sweet then.
but parts still remind me
Of a ******* after that wedding
of me sneaking to the bathroom afterwards
Pressing my face against the cold tiles.
That is where I cried at 16.

This is the last time we touched.
Your eyes peered similar to the night you cried about your father.
I didn't understand.
Disconnected.
You sat with crude thoughts in your mind.
I saw days bursting with moments of you in my eyes,
of us.
I am not another person.
I was yours a year ago, wasn't I?
A month?
A week?
When did you stop feeling?
No-
You care.
I see it in those snaked eyes.
You touched her,
you feel a crack in my heart for it,
for what you did whilst wearing a ring.
But that's all you will feel,
a tiny crack.
A mere beginning to the canyons you caused.
I am littered with ash and crevices.
Your words corroded the valves and cells of my being.
**** or **** or ****
will never amount to the sinful meanings you gave
love or forever or promise.

The door opens.
The sun.
Light--everywhere, always
howling through the seams
it creeps under doors
and slowly, effortlessly
consumes bits of curtains
leaving it looking rather holy
with beams peaking through.

Step out.
A film of air-conditioned skin is peeled off
and replaced with a curt sizzle.
The heat climbs up your nose,
the heat does not hide or play kindly.
The heat does not worry of your dry skin--
it is a spotlight on chapped lips.

Step back in side.
The Arizona sun is an Alaskan winter.
I cocoon myself in dark sheets and Otter Pops.
I forfeited this battle many years ago.

I wasn't raised as a lady
with three brothers and a father to tie me down
and beat sense into my girlish mind.
But early illuminations
brought dark realizations-
as it seems a fool is favored.

Feathered eyelids and buttered cheeks
of these I knew nothing.
Clumsy drugstore purchases
to paint a face too young into beauty.
The type they want to look at.

Braces be gone!
Glasses, so long!
Sear these curls with an iron!
So there, cursed mirror of murmurs!  
The type they want to look at!

Nay!
He says that's not enough.
And who am I to stop his hand
spidering up my skirt.
This is it.
The type they want to touch.

Wash your face off
and all the scents and spots
of whoever he was.
Some are too deep,
it seems they have seeped.
The type they want to ****.

You'll ruin your sheets
if you cry like that-
motherless infant.
You cannot always need,
you'll be the type they want to leave.