i take all the words i wish to write down, and turn them over in my fingers. they can't be too sappy. like my ambien-fueled sentiments from middle school, some things i wish to say are too heavy and sugar laden. they mustn't be too sharp. scars remain from the strung out sentences i used to wrap around my wrists. do they rhyme?
why do i question the words that pool from my mouth? brash women like me dont think before we speak. what i say is tinged by a rusty shadow and leaves a tang in my mouth. do not ask me to take back what i have said, i couldn't stomach that.

“You can have all this,” I pull at my skin. “This you may have.”
He prods a finger at my temple,
“I want what's in here.”
His request falls heavily on my chest-
a familiar inquiry posed by only one other petitioner.

“You can't go in there," I remind him.
His face twists in dissatisfaction,
eyes shut in a moment of musing,
and I feel anxiously for fractures along my skull,
afraid that perhaps he has already made his way inside.

His hands sink deep in his coat pockets,
fumbling with loose tobacco and empty dime bags.

Disinterest looms as he ties his laces and fastens his buttons,
I concede.

the shards of my skull are removed hastily,
the semblance of a shattered mirror place in his palms
he turns over each piece, twirling them between his fingers

the shiny pieces are placed amongst the tobacco and baggies in his pockets, the rest are strewn at my feet

"Thanks," trails behind him.

I thought,
Maybe I only wrote when I was in love.
But you see,
I still am.
It's just now he's gone,
And I can't seem to find those beautiful words anymore.

YOU
overestimated the strength of this foundation
this home was made of paper -
3 years of hot glue and worn fingers,
finally we had a bedroom,
a living space

with fall came the rain
day and night, downpour
sign number one the flood was coming -
puddles appeared in the grass and i tried fixing it with my cupped hands
silently pleading that the neighbors look away while i was on my knees
you rushed around with a bucket of paint, the grass must be green
the grass must be green, your shirt must be tucked, i must crack a joke when your family shows
it was still raining and everyone else realized what was happening
my mother called, "please just leave. your skin is greying
get out of the rain."

You slept through the thunder,
a crack appeared here and there and the floorboards shook
Our arguments leaked through the cracks
And the screams dripped down the walls

during dinner it suddenly became all too much
the windows popped, one by one, starting in the basement
you thought if you locked the doors the water would stay out
if we stayed in the covers we would be dry
if i stayed naked we'd be fine
but i'm cold i'm cold and it's still raining

the windows kept popping and you ran to replace them
but water and glass overtook you
shards in your back, shards in your hands
please don't touch me don't grab me don't hold my face
rain water filling your lungs - pouring from your mouth
you screamed apologies and tried to hold me
don't kiss me i can't breathe please don't kiss me don't
the water was only up to your shoulders but you were drowning
just swim, you idiot, make an effort to stay afloat
i have this raft made of my skin
and yes there is a scar there and a burn to the left
but it can hold us

we climbed back into bed instead,
completely submerged
you held me tightly as i welcomed the rain into my lungs
and with the glass in your hands slowly slicing my skin
I apologized
And felt the roof land on my spine

I find you between the pages of textbooks
I see you in Christmas lights

My past and present is skewed
and I don't know if tomorrow is yesterday