for weeks, I believed
there were field mice scurrying under my skin
and dust from their toenails gave
me a cutting cough
as if they had been walking
on hateful words written in chalk

but it was you,
my body treated you like *****.

after I lost you, I grew a second layer of flesh
that covered your face,
a white towel, the white flag of peace
although
I already saw you in pieces.

nobody could have given you
a better funeral
than my swiss army knife and I

its blade wrote your would-be name where
you never got to touch
so maybe
bacteria would crawl inside
and I could still believe in the mice.

my lack of nails fail to itch
the scratch of failure on my skin and
i cannot fall asleep at night because
i wake up to the sound of my thoughts
rolling and crashing against one
another into this huge sea of
awful.

I'm not an artist,
nor am I a murderer—
but I would **** for the day
where you let me trace circles on your skin
and outline your canvas with mine.

you still won't stay up
into the late hours of the night
to talk to me.

i don't know why i thought it'd be
different
this time.

*******.
i missed you.
but *******.

you say you miss me
like it's a chore.

i think i'm bleeding.

I wonder what
It would be like
To see your face
Smile at me like that
Again.