Many people see
stars on the night sky.
But i see only a
graveyard whose candles
are still lit on the graves,
even though they are
long exstinguished by the angels

I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.

So go ahead.
One more time.
Whisper sweet nothings into my ear ;
and tell me how badly you want me.
Wrap your arms around me again
and look at me with lust,
while I look at you with feelings.
I was your temporary affection,
but you were my permanent affliction.

I regret you more than the 21 year old I kissed
and the six cups of coffee I had before bed

I regret you more than the cut on my hand
and the color of my hair

You were another one of my desperate attempts of wanting to feel
something

but now I would rather go back to feeling nothing at all

I am not sure why I keep on picking roses even though I know they have thorns.

I hold onto matches too long, and kiss too many boys.

Because the truth is I can’t feel anything at all.

They say you’re most alive with a broken heart, but I was never one for irony.

I used to want to tell you everything and now I can only seem to talk about the weather.

I desperately want affection but I flinch at everyone’s attempt to get to know me.

I am scared that I will forget you, but I cut my hair so there was less of me you had touched.