taking a substantial bite from the already petite slice,
he smiles and shoves the remainder of the fruit in my face.
“it tastes just like you; innocent and oh-so delicious.”

my skin crawls on every level imaginable submerged in flesh.
turning around as to hide my contorted expression, i just nod.
i absolutely hate him, but they claim he took care of me as a child.

“you don’t have to like him; he just needs acknowledgment.”

he grips my hands and spins me around. just like he used to.
but harder. much harder. i used to feel terror; it’s routine now.
stare at the concrete as spit projects on my face - internal meditation.

they never believe me when i bring it up. i get it, there’s no proof.
these marks around my throat – allergies from the weather.
you’re right, these bruises, they’re from rough housing. tough love.

literally.

he says the easiest way to discipline someone was reinforcing punishment.
you should see the strength he uses to test for ripeness at the market.
now imagine this: the watermelon is your skull, and his fists are knives.

i just avoid eye contact and clench my abdomen; the knees are coming.
“i’m going to spread you open today, boy; like a ******* ****** watermelon”
he loves seeing the liquid run down my chin – perfectly young and seedless.

and i react just how he likes it:

like his ******* watermelon.

one forceful burst of holiday wind
makes me glance passively to the left,
tracing the lines in your ponytail as you
continue to stare beneath the pier. the
void silence between us is normal; i shiver
and you follow suit. you’re wearing triple
layers and i’m wishing i would have been
more prepared.

the seals suddenly go belly-up and you call for
the others. they come over; one is embracing
the other from behind; arms bolted to hips.
in the right angle, underneath the lamp post, i
pretend to unsee a slightly fresh mark on her neck.

i sense the awkwardness drifting our way as if the
white fog in the night had suddenly come alive. i
inch a hint closer. enough so you wouldn’t notice.
in fact, i’m not sure what would have happened.
i wonder if you would have stopped me, having known.

there’s about three inches and four centimeters between
our arms now. the others have gone upstairs and the voices
around us have retired. the small voice beneath my ears is
pressuring me to shoot my shot but my being remains stagnant.
we observe the seals dance joyously within nature’s boundaries.

you’re still shivering.

a forest – somewhere unfamiliar, sectioned
a cabin – noiseless mannequins stand at attention

the air reeks of dampening feces, but only in certain spaces.
drains masked in chipping red paint dangle like
loose ligaments on skinned pigs above rusted strobe lights.
their faces flattened and torn, arms swaying – minds motionless.
the walls barbed from previous failed experiments create sanity.
one hacksaw. three nails. two strands of hair.
three hundred sixty-five horizons.

the stars outside are starting to shine
and the director is feeling lightheaded.

both boys have the hiccups and
a slight infection of the hickies.

the cameramen hide in the restroom
hitting **** rips and bean dip.

all avoid the white couch
where the restraints wait.

he barters with the moon and wonders why
he’s endlessly exhausted

the gentle melody of drifting
heartbeat interrupts my thought midsentence.
it’s three in the morning once more.
maybe i should tell the truth to set you free:
“I have work in the morning”
or
“I have to study for my finals”
except - I don’t want to let it be;
because right now,
tucked under your covers
somewhere in another galaxy,
nothing else is more important to me
than you.


she pleads for sunset and wonders why
the sun climbs with such haste

if i silence the cosmos with my ears to the screen
and my heart on your chest,
perhaps you will realize that
right now,
warmly tucked within your arms
somewhere in another galaxy,
nothing else is more important to me
than you.

it amazes me how much time
the human mind, or simply,
a broken heart can grieve
on just one person –

and they could simply have no idea.

the preamble to self-deprecation
and sleepless pillow talk –

a love story torn in two
before the hero should be introduced.

-

the earth froze as our eyes met - for only a hint;
then the flame vanished – suddenly reminding me how much
i’d love for us to meet for the first time, all over again.

wishing to fall for you – without the courage to tell you,

over and over

again and again.

she never expressed how she detested hearing
the taste of words that don’t mean a **** thing;
the same tongues that apologize for leaving
and return when apathy-cells begin to rejuvenate

but watching from afar, i could sense the extent
the knives and cues have shaken her. blue eyes
blink when their names curl on the roof of her mouth.

she hates it when hugs are too tight and when
hearts begin to feel fuzzy, reminding her of
Vegas heat and betrayal within inner rings.

i know how it must have felt when your
eyes met theirs. the way they coldly stared;
a loss of words from both sides; air caught
in tracheas where only laughter should reside.

she despises the feeling of carpet and crumpled
bills, recollections of departure ***** from places
she never knew existed. all she remembers: flashing
lights and his skin on hers despite the blistering heat.

“he took care of me when nobody else did”

never forget that abandonment is a form of abuse;
remember that it’s never worth crying to sleep for;
if they reject you, maybe they just aren’t fit for you

not anymore.

whenever you’re ready to confront them,
don’t forget to hold on & remain strong.
remember that you still have perfect brows
and a boat-sized heart; beautiful regardless
of what they say & think.

good luck.

she longs for the merciful present of the past

so tonight, i pray these words

that flow from my eyes

free sanity from her prison walls.

_

“are you two still talking?” –  i shake my head, ashamed.
“didn’t you guys have a thing?” – only if that “thing” was friendship.

homesick – currently missing you.

I saw you again today as usual.

Whenever we hug, it reminds me of guns that flicker
when triggered,
the outlet that ignites
spontaneous wildfire.
Whenever we converse, words stiffen in your mouth -
a rose caged by him
within the vase.

guns and roses share similar traits:

dangerous but oddly enough,
I still want to hold you…