i.
i think i have a bug bite
for every
kiss that you planted on my
neck ,
arms ,
chest .
ii.
my jaw is set on
vibrate
and your legs are between my legs .
sensative .
i can't speak ,
and i can barely breathe straight ,
but i can feel ..
iii.
pretty .
like i matter .
my body is outside
and inside
and i can see you and me ,
feel you and me .
iv.
lights dance on and i start praying to a god
i don't believe in
that we're not caught and it's not ruined .
and that this isn't a dream .
and that you're real .
vi.
you come over the next morning .
and you smile .
and i smile .
and it starts all over again .
over and over and over and over in my head
on my neck .
on my arms .
on my chest .
in my mouth .
v.**
i love you .

I met you four years ago
and I hated you .

four years later ,
and we are holding each other
on you mattress , and I'm
stuck between finding warmth
in arms that aren't mine ,
and mining trees to make sticks .

you always end up holding me .
you always end up holding me .
you always end up holding me .

and I'm realizing now
that you aren't holding me
so that I will feel better ;
you are holding me because
you see me cracking
and you see the pieces of my
heart breaking off into your hand
and you don't walk away .

you're good at making things ,
and you know how to
put it back together .

and it scares me
that you take so much time
and care into looking at each
piece and finding its place .
because you see things
that I haven't seen .

maybe you're an angel
sent from god to prep me for
eternity ,
or maybe you're a demon
sent from hell
as a house-warming gift ,
but at this point
it doesn't matter ;

just as long as I got to keep you
for a little while .

you told me that
drinking
was bad for me
I told you that my
numbness
was worse than any shot of liquor  
it's getting difficult to wake up
again
and I wish I could be a
better
friend
and I feel so bad for the people
who love me against their will

you're
hurting
too and I don't know what to say
because I'm
not
sure that it will be okay

this doesn't mean anything
and I hope that means something

**let me hold your hand

i

I can’t tell you

how much I miss you

without tearing 
a few pages from your rib

ii
setting your eyes on fire 
begging you not to beg me 
kissing me whilst I try 
not to plant these memory seeds on your lips

iii
they grow into thorns 
piercing my life 
into a sore pink 
like watermelon flesh

iv**
you were born to be remembered , not missed

being missed means you eat up people’s memory space 
leaving them full of you 

but empty of now
and lost searching for a shadow of your smile

these words aren’t about you .

they’re about the person I let rent space
inside my heart .

they’re about the times I wished I could go back

and say to them ,

*“no
it’s okay , you can stay longer ;

I don’t care
if your payment is late ."
*

because having you there was enough.

but these words aren’t about you .

they’re for the person still hiding behind these drained eyes .

these shaking fingers .

these weak limbs .

and I’m still not sure which is better ;

to feel everything at once or nothing at all .

because sometimes it is both ,

and you are the gushing waters drowning my lungs .

and sometimes it is neither ,

and you are the words I wish I could drink from the sea .

*we always left so many of them unsaid ,
*
letting our bodies do the talking .

but now I wonder how many conversations 
we’ve had with each other when we

thought we were asleep .

it was may twentieth and
he asked me
why I always tried to **** myself .
I never liked this question ,
but I loved him ,
so I told him .

I was like a broken table ,
in the kind of way
where nobody wants to have me
because they're scared I'll
break ,
and even though they know
I'm going to break ,
they keep putting bricks on me ,
expecting me to be **strong .

she stepped out
into the light of day ..
bare .
she was completely alone ..
and worthless ..
and small .

she swallowed silence
like she had not eaten in years ;
she looked just the same .

the silence and beatings
and numbness
she felt
was poured from her wrists
in hundreds upon hundreds
of beatings of her own .

her skin was pale .
her bones were fragile .

she was eighteen ,
born on an april tuesday .
she had lost her name
to the voices inside of her .
they had named her ana .

she trusted no one .
she loved no one .
she was harsh and numb ..

but most of all ....
ana
was lost .