I used to wrap myself
in pastel colored ribbons
until I grew taller
and left them in the rain

I used to count the seconds
quietly to myself
until you bought me
that first bottle of wine

your name fills my mouth,
most mornings
when the sun comes up and
I become puddles of myself

I have a weakness for extremes.
for tall, bald girls who smoke cigarettes and preach ethics.
for that growl in your voice.
for fat, hairy men who practice science and believe in God.
for the way you use your tongue.
for people who speak tenderly pull my hair too hard.

I have a habit of finding forgiveness in sweat stained sheets.
I have this glass jar. I whisper your name into it when the moon is full.
I have always wanted to smash it into shards.

I dream sometimes
that you come back to me
with apology on your lips

it kisses away
the hurt, the regret
and we go back to the start

I usually wake up
sweating, weeping
telling myself,

over and over
that I don't want you
anymore.

Sometimes I get so angry
intangibly angry,
like a child,
and I don't know
what to do with it all
so I drink and I shout,
say that I'm better
without you,
wake up in the morning
and swear up and down
to stop writing about you.

I was there with you,
you cried and cried
spilling fear and anxiety
on the skin of my back
on the skin of my thighs
fits that overwhelmed you,
as your bones shook mine
as you rocked back and forth
I wished
under my breath
and in my prayers,
but you blamed me anyway

Your skin turns white
under the pressure
of your clenched fist,
And I kiss and kiss
until my face is red

Four am,
our last minutes
before
133 days
apart,
dug my fingers into your skin,
begged you not to go

took the week off work,
spent it wearing your shirt
and a tear-stained face