swishers aren’t so sweet when
our teeth are banging together
tongues fighting for dominance
gin burning our lips
hungrily seeking
an escape from ourselves
selfishly burring our stingers into the back of the other
******* are aptly named
La petite mort
because i want to die and be reborn
& i was foolish
for ever thinking that you could be
different

The rain pours and pops ,
outside my window pane
and I can hear thunder rolling in,
behind the hills

The white of my comforter
is stained wet from sweat,
and feet
and summer skin

I try to keep your smell,
pressed into my sheets
and the pillow case,
that once held your head

Bronzed and beautiful,
a body built for two
and to always be
touched,
kissed,
and forgotten

But I won't forget you, love
and for every drop of rain
for every splash and ping
I will fall ever the more in denial
that our love was not,
meant to last.

"You're afraid of growing up."

Perhaps
but I see no shame in that
why would I ever want to grow up
if it means being
miserable
lonely
and drunk
like you,
Dad.
-

One day you will find
that vengeance is mine
every single time
that I cross your mind

Winter
He was fifteen. I was sixteen.
And we were young.
And we were in love.

“I love you to the moon and back,” he’d say.
And I’d smile and ruffle his hair.
And he’d kiss me on the forehead.
And we were in love.


“Write me a letter,” he said.
So I wrote the truth on a piece of blue paper:
You make me feel alive.
And he wrote back:
You make me feel real.
And that was the truth.
And we were in love.

Spring
"Come over after your Easter dinner," he asked.
And he gave me a basket of candy,
But his hands made me feel sweeter than chocolate.

“I just can’t tonight…” he said (lied).
“Oh, that’s okay… see you tomorrow…” I said (lied).

“He’s going to break up with her,” were the whispers I heard in the hallways
“Four months! Four months and that’s it?” I sobbed.
“No, no. Stop crying honey, you look like you’re on crack…” He tried to joke.

And we [I] were still in love.

Summer
“When are you coming over?” I asked (everyday other day).
No response.
“Are we still on for tonight?” I asked (every Friday).
“Yeah, yeah sure.”
“He’s really going to break up with her this time…” they all said.

And he did.

And I was still in love.

And he was not.







And I am still in love.

And

he

is

*not.

Her daddy once told her that just trying her best was enough,
She shook her head and said, "Everything is just so tough."

Her momma once told her she could be anything she dreamed.
She rolled her eyes and said, "That world is make-believe."

Her best friend once told her she was the greatest companion she had.
She scoffed and said, "If that's true, it's pretty bad."

A boy once told her she was the prettiest girl he ever saw.
She smiled and blushed, but said, "That's not true at all."

She didn't see it - all her potential.
All she saw were eyes that were fearful.
She didn't see it - all the love they had for her.
All she saw was a mental sickness with no cure.
She didn't see it - all the life she still had to live.
So across her wrist, that shiny blade slid.

Red, sticky red,
It laced through her fingers,
staining her t-shirt,
but not releasing her demons.

Red, sticky red,
It let her down,
dripping onto the tile,
but no release was found.

After realizing the mistake she just made,
she bandaged up her wrist and got on with the day.
Her daddy and momma, they asked no questions,
oblivious of their sweet little girl's deadly intentions.