my mouth was still stained
red from the
pomegranate seeds i ate from the palm of you hand
when i checked your instagram feed.
i had been lost in your underworld for
three
whole
days
before the weight of your sorrow found its
way into my stomach
and to the marrow of my bones.
like some fish wiggling along the sides of a
tank i ate your emotional refuse
and felt myself
becoming heavier and heavier
while you lifted to the clouds
and found this beauty among them.
i still sat in the bottom of the pond
bloated and
envying the sky above me.
you are still swimming in my blood
like a nasty parasite
and i feel like ripping out my stomach
to pour the weight of you out
but you seem so happy that
i want to pretend that your sadness
never existed and
that i am a stranger merely browsing through
photos.
but the fact remains that i
am still here.
on my bed writing angrily
about you like i have written about
dozens before you
and for some reason
something
hasn't
changed.

I would like to write you a love poem.
I would like to speak in flowery metaphors
and smilies, where your face is the
scarred moon
and your breath the dawn
but it would be more beneficial to
write
instead
an epic dedicated to the
way yoga pants make my *** look
because black stretch fabric
and my thighs
have a relationship worthy of fluffy fan fiction
and my worst pair
hug my body better than you ever could.
and black will always have more loyalty
than your heart can imagine

if ever the salt in your soul
becomes too much
so grainy that it
fills your veins
and stills your happiness
if it becomes so heavy that it fills your combat
boots like the desert sands
you will fight on
and piles onto the floor when you open your
mouth
if it becomes so brackish
that gin and whiskey will
not drown out  the voices
of the demons in your stomach
i will take your salt and
toss it in the four directions
of the earth
i will give it back the dirt
i will place it on the wings of crows and ravens
to deliver it to the laughing sky
to the sea which craves it
to the cleansing fire
i will give it to all these
and place some of
it in my own heart
under my own tongue
and in my own soul

if the curves of my stomach offend
you
i suggest you get the
*******
   of
me
but when this rage comes you speak
so
sof
      t
ly
and wonder why i look at you
like you burned
me but
you don't understand how predecessors of your gender have treated me.
kind words have never been spoken to me
soberly or
without weight behind them
like bartering in a dark corner bed while everyone else sleeps
where i stop being a woman, an entity, and become an unfeeling orifice whose name has suddenly become
                                          baby
because a few kinds words were mumbled against the shell
of my ear
you don't understand
how hands have grabbed me in the dark
and how my own hands have grabbed
only out of desperation
to feel something
you don't understand how hard it is for you to touch me and
for me not to feel lightening hot repulsion
as i lay drunk, ready to sleep.
you don't understand how when people touch my hair
all i can feel are hands curling against my scalp
and the way cold-shaking hands curled around my dress
and the way fear has been etched into the lines of my brain like a map of the city i know so well
like that alley i can't walk down alone at night
or that part of lexington where men shout at me hungrily
or the way stranger's hands sometimes 'slip'
you will never understand the weight of my insecurity because no amount of sweetness you can pour onto me can replace the venom fed to me by the men before you
no matter how 'enough' i may be with you
you will never understand how 'enough' isn't tangible
how beautiful doesn't really feel like a compliment
and how much
i doubt you actually love me

without the memories of playgrounds--
the smell of too many American Spirits
(andsometimesnewportmentholswhentimesgottough)
the taste of chocolate wine
the cold of holy river water
the sting of heartache and hangovers and broken toes
the glow of midnight fires built too high with entire trees
the feel of tears on my sun-scorched collarbones
the sound of e.e. cummings and the poems from our adolescence being read over baking bread at three in the morning
rushing back to me.
i still remember our fears of shadow people and the
too loud screams of *** rock
over men(i should say boys)
who we centered our summer around
when we weren't busy being goddesses.
& there isn't a day i don't see a swing set
or hear the beginnings of Johnny Cash song
when i do not think of you
and hope
that the world will not change you
that the world will not change me
and we will one day
have a practical magic houses
and hostas
that i glare at
while i make tea in the mornings.

buried behind a wall of complacency
my contentment boils -- steams like pots of cleansing tea-- in the constant cold
pass the peace pipe over the bones of my enemies.
my rebellion is rooted
deep within my veins
                                       {burried under tact and sweet smiles}  but ready to return

the blood of warrior women waiting to return

runs within me- my abilities are their evolution

from the color of my eyes to my tolerance for pain-- rooted

into my skullspinesoul

in a field of dinosaur bones-

only the strong survive the cold

this ever present frost
follows me like the windigo; its return

deep in the decemberjanuaryfebuary ache of my bones
a disease malignant in the
deep r
              u
n
n  
     i
        n
            g
tap-roots of elms-  etched
into
time like
               skeletons in the ice
tested {thawing} with every return
of this ******* season, evolving
from the lifeless bones
of trees to the wings of birds

brittle, but strong;
bundled with love(hate) protecting me from the cold

letting go, but wanting them to
fall back like
cigarette ashes in the wind

this is no place or time in my life for slow acceptance but
I find safety in the muscle bound bones
aware, lying (insomniac), waiting for someone to breathe
life into the marrow.

my love- deep, engrained, rooted
the pulse of human heat keeping me from the cold
will I ever change?

bundled against the cold, the cracking of my bones
is like the creaking of the dead trees i stare up at
with their songs of change
and the end of fears never to thaw out again

Fill the silence of our discontent with the sound of a swishing liquor bottle and the popping of pills.

We are rocks in each others’ sinking worlds but I’m

not your rock anymore.

You threw me out of your life

The night I let you

Hold me

The night I let you

Touch me

The night I let you

Fell the love I have for you through the touch of my lips

The pads of my fingers

And the walls of my ******

The night I gave you everything I had

And asked for nothing in return.

But I’m not yours anymore

I’m just a ***** on her knees begging for something more than ***** flavored

I

Love

Yous.

I’m not yours anymore

I’m not begging or crying with my heart torn open

Ready for you to pack another bowl within it

Waiting for you to forget
                                         hername
                                                         myname
                                                          ­                yourname

Waiting for you to slip past hateful sobriety

Waiting for you to drag me down with you to the bottom of a bottle

Waiting for you to

Love me.

Waiting for you to smile and tell me all the things I want to hear

and trust you.

But I’m not yours anymore and I hate you.

But today when you

Smiled, spoke to me like a friend

While she looked on from the corner

I felt my heart eager for more ashes and resin of some

late night whispers

that sound so sweet

but in the morning light

float away like the smoke that slipped

out of your mouth and into

mine

My legs ready to open

But then I remembered

                                 I’m not yours anymore.

For you

I’m not worth

the lighter

Cigarettes and love

You stole from me

But I don’t give a

****

Because **I’m not

Yours

Any

More.

I am sorry to bother you,
so please
                                                          ­                                  ignore these words
or don't.
Who am I
                                                                ­                      to tell you what to do?
Whatever you choose to do,
                                           know this poem has no greater cosmic meaning.
That was not its purpose.
If there is some deeper meaning,
                                                        ­                                      I'm unaware of it.
I'll leave it to you to speculate.