Something about
the way you hold a cigarette
makes me twirl beneath my skirt.
Sinister swirls release and retract
as they slip up out of your lips
like snakes. You should quit,
I tell you you should quit
as I curl into your lap like a kitten
and thank you for smoking.

I keep a sweater of yours
always, darling, it warms my
legs up in the car
those cold mornings you aren't there
to hold me
as I descend into the world.

When you aren't home, the walls speak to me.
The floor heaves with exhausted breath,
and the furniture creaks unprompted,

asking me to leave.
We call this home so often,
but only together. Alone,
we feel unwelcome here.

We both know. It's because
we painted the walls with our loathing.
We didn't mean to. And now I want nothing

more than to start new with you,
in a moderately clean home
with plain white walls.

you
and i are more

alike than we think.
but

you experienced so much
excitement
at my age, so

perhaps i'm destined
to have
mine

at yours.

Sweetheart,
if you saw my blood pour out
onto paper, you wouldn't want it

anymore.

I still hate you but I want you to taste me.
Though I wouldn't dare ask, because
if I'm being honest I want to do nothing for you
in return. I want to punish you, deprive you.
To take from you--like a sacrifice to a goddess--
what I deserve. And to give you nothing
but the satisfaction of knowing that even after everything
you can still reach between my legs
and hold me like your doll.

Sometimes pain is so strong
it transcends conscious thought.
So powerful it cannot be described,
imitated, or understood at all--
It simply is. It exists,
and welcome or not,
It is present.