my body shivers as i curl up next to her. we whisper and cry as she claws through my hair—this is our nightly ritual.
i am crawling into the shell of myself. i am allowed to be held here. i am safe now but there is still creaking from this bed and dandruff under her fingernails and my dog is barking at the wall that i will not knock down.
here i have learned what it is to be a woman—
to give everything save for the bones in your body so that your love can mean something. to look unto her, that beautiful woman who hates herself, and only see your own outline.

i’m drowning in a sea of green.
the water is warm and welcoming-
it opens car doors for me,
and holds my hand as i walk the earth.
nearing it’s shores, i melt.
i want it to hold me in its grasp forever,
pulling me into its depths of safety and love.
it’s subtle crashing waves lull me into a trance.
i dream of a perfect world,
where the only thing in between me and the water is the oxygen in my lungs.

my eyes are buzzing; there are birds in my chest
and a hole where my throat ought to be.
my body is slick and empty. my stomach churns and I don’t know if i am harboring a fugitive in my organs or just seasick. no way to know.
my head is heavy but i have rusted too much to unscrew it now. i havent slept in millennia but i’m too old for that **** anyways.
my body is made of crushed light and heat, from biblically accurate dinosaur bones. take my lackluster god and step on her toes. you forgot your colors on my ******* neck.

i only write in the dark in the night in the moments when i feel my eyelids fall heavy and my chest grow empty. it is only then that i can untie the bird from my sternum and let the creatures growing in my small intestines wake. the sky will rupture and glow pink and i will be none the wiser because while white elephants sing and paper mache dolls rise i will be here, in my final form in the sea with those who tried me like i tried myself. i am my own worst enemy.

its been thousands of years since ive seen your face but i still remember the way your eyes lit up when you talked about something you were passionate about. i guess after a while the light went out when you thought about me.

it's almost as if everything is perfect, even if just for a moment.
maybe it's from the way you tilt your head back when you laugh,
or it's the familiar scent of watermelon rinds and petrichor in the air.
but mostly, I think, it's because of the safety I feel with you.
I can feel the fireworks detonate,
in my heart and my chest.
I flinch as a blur of colors light up the sky
but you wrap your arm around my shoulders
and let me know that everything is alright.
you lace your hand with mine and i lay my head on your shoulder.
"wake up," you say, "you're dreaming."
but I don't hear you.
all I can hear is the sound of our heartbeat, together,
and the explosion of fireworks.

she leans into the mic, her voice is raspy and familiar. i know why she doesn't remember my name and my clothes and my story. i know why she chooses to forget.
i can't seem to make out the words she's saying. i want to sit in a corner and hide, but i need to do this right now. i watch her lips as sound flows out like pudding, drops and glops of the stuff making a mess everywhere. i open my mouth to speak too. i sound just like her: incoherent and jumbly.
i watch in horror and disbelief as i morph into her. my nails and lungs turn black, the pins fall out of my hair. i catch a glimpse of my reflection. i look the same as i always have. nothing has changed.

my feet sink into the dirt, mud and grass and all things between my toes and in the cuffs of my jeans. it doesn't matter though, i'm where i'm supposed to be.
its the garden of eden, the apple of temptation. if only i believed in god, this might mean something more.

i’m drowning in a sea of green.
it’s waters are murky and deceitful-
i thought i knew how to swim.
i open my eyes to find myself
sitting in a bed of concrete,
no water in sight.
i find myself unfamiliar with dry land,
taken aback by the absence of warmth.
all i know is that i have to get back up,
rebuild what has been washed away.

press your hands into the dirt,
do my organs feel okay?
i haven't slept since the day I cried into you,
since the day you knew how to care for me like I was yours.
were you mourning then too?
i'm buried in the yard with your cat and your orchids--
pour the soil into my bed and over your head.

you stab at the sheet of fabric in your hands, the needle flashing. back and forth and back and forth and backandforth.
your movements are rhythmic. i lean in, listening to the drum, the identifiable footsteps down the hall, the delayed strike of thunder after lightning in a storm.
you move closer to whisper in my ear, never stopping your work:
"you won't remember this."
i now notice the stains on your shirt. they're speckled in various colors, greens and blues and shades of magenta.
i should have known.
you're silent again---or maybe my ears have just stopped working because i can't even hear your breathing. i don't look up this time. i'm too focused on the crate on the floor, the one that's full to the brim of clothing hangers. i close my eyes. you watch me sleep.
i don't even notice when the fabric tears.

all i want is to fall into the floor. i want to sink myself through the cracks of the wooden boards and weave myself into the rug. i lay here every night, hoping, waiting for the moment when the atoms in my body vibrate at just the right intensity that i pass through, becoming one with the ground. i want flowers to grow through my spine, baby's breath in my teeth, camellias in my hair. i want to squeeze my eyes shut so tight that i can drown out the voices that call after me: "no! not again! you'll fall asleep!"

i'm laying on the wooden floor, hoping and praying to a god i don't believe in. i move my hand and suddenly my face is wet, stained with tears and paint and pain and all other things. i think i can stand but my legs are honey and you are the ***. jigsaw pieces litter the ground but i don't mind it down here.
i can't read you right now. i have my magnifying glass but i'm too scared to start a fire. i can't see you right now. i'm thirty-four miles away on top of a rock in the canyon and i can't talk right now, the reception is bad and my feet hurt. you leave me a message anyways. i miss your voice.
maybe alice was wrong about those cookies. maybe we should have stuck to the warning on the bottle and swallowed our tears and gave up trying to stay afloat. or maybe eating burnt bread by the candlelight was worth every painful second, every moment knowing i would and will lose you.