in the summer before everything ended, we went to an art museum that had entire rooms showcasing death and you pulled me away before I could admire the human composition stains, melted into bronze silhouettes, because what if I thought it looked ugly
what if I figured out I didn’t actually want to **** myself and instead just wanted to escape you –
stains of strawberry juice around my mouth I thought of as blood and you thought of as lipstick
I prettied myself for suicide , I scratched maps into my thighs – little guides of where a knife would go little hopes that if I saw the death display maybe I would have known.
for years it was all experimental. I watched pieces of us come and go like art exhibits, you watched me as if I was nothing but a work in progress that soaked up so much paint I could not help but look like you when it was through. I was a child, was impressionist (impressionable –
now your thoughts persist as human composition stains – happily, I am alive and you will never be dead enough.