I throw lightbulbs at cellophane walls and watch as they bounce onto the floor and shatter across my feet, sparks lighting my feet and then resting right there, beneath me: apart of me.

I can't erase you
now that I've felt
for you.

my skin can bare the bruises of you,
but my mind and soul are the ones I worry for.

Someday, those photos will look old, like when you recognize the pile of dust resting on a dingy book. Someday, those photos will look old, and you'll still be young in my mind, like every new word my mind pours from my chest to this paper, someday you'll grow old but my relics of you will remain frayed and new.

Someday, those photos will look old, like when you recognize the pile of dust resting on a dingy book. Someday, those photos will look old, and you'll still be young in my mind, like every new word my mind pours from my chest to this paper, someday you'll grow old but my relics of you will remain frayed and new.

I'd recreate myself from paper, easily, so that on the days that i cry, my words will slump into the lines of my cheeks and wither away my memories.

i spilled black coffee down the barebones of your thighs and watched as the paleness of you blush into ruddy-ness. below, i watch the tarred remains of me that couldn't stick to you spread and sink into the earth.