it shocks me to think that i let you touch me the way that you did,
your fingers dipped into my skin and an arm slung my neck.
you left an imprint that will never leave.
i have rubbed my skin pink and raw countless times but i am never truly clean.
who am i more disgusted with?
myself,
     for letting this happen?
          or you,
               for still having the nerve to get so close- hot breath prickling the back of my neck, sparking skin, inferno eyes- and tell me our game is done?

yes, the game i was never told we were playing... every tiny motion, every syllable, every touch… just a simple strategy to win.
i was unknowingly an opponent that you sought to knock down.
you never even let me know the rules.
now you flinch at the touch you once so lovingly leaned into.
(i use the word “lovingly” sarcastically, of course. you and i both know that, to you, there is no such thing as love. only winning or losing.)

so, you’ve emerged a victor. what’s your prize? tears that leave me hollow on the inside? midnight migraines while i long for a love that will never come?

does it fill you with satisfaction to watch the way i tremble when you come near?

you keep the trophies of every body you’ve invaded along the shelf of your room. i’m sure you run your finger over the plastic lip and think about the way her breath hitched and eyes fluttered shut when you did the same to her. she tastes like golden-plated achievements, doesn’t she?

but what you already have is not enough. you are constantly on the lookout for another medal, another souvenir from her heart.

you will make her laugh, deep from her stomach that causes her head to snap back. her chest will feel heavy when she looks at you.
(but it is not love.)
you will give her those half-lidded gazes and whisper in her ear and trace patterns into her side.
(but it is not love.)
you will get close- far too close.
(but it is not love.)
then you will sever that thin thread between you both.
     dip it in gasoline.
          set it on fire.
               add fuel to the flames with a few venomous words.

but you are not to blame.

it is never your fault, is it?
misunderstood,
that’s what you are.

acrylic fingertips
and regurgitated phrases.

it's the hot days that ache the most
dull, nearly unnoticeable
as i watch the sun drip down my walls and await... what?
perhaps nimble fingers splitting me open,
prodding at my organs?
at least maybe then
i'd be able to feel something
besides overheated

watch dust dance in the amber light
and listen to the drone of an aged box fan
feeling the seconds tick by
one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten

it's a strange pain, one that spreads from my core out to my extremities
not the pain of something inside but a lack thereof
it, like the time, drips like molasses, like honey, golden as the sunlight,
and it ties down my limbs to uncomfortably warm sheets

it feels as if i've been waiting
and waiting
and waiting
for something
that will never come

on these days i have no choice
but to listen to the hollowness
a sorrow both gripping and just beyond my reach
and i'm never quite sure what my brain is wanting me to do at these moments
is it simply searching
for thoughts to fill my mind,
the silence?
in that case, should i lay back,
let the numbness and the aches wash over me
like hot flashes?
surrender?
let the hole cave in?
or is it trying to inspire me?
should i take this as an initiative?
become the person i've always wanted to be,
not a dilettante,
not a liar?

perhaps this uncertainty
is worse than the sweat