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May 2016
I keep thinking about his bones. How I will never see them.

Sometimes it feels like he is holding me between his fingers, watching me sift through the spaces.

one time he rolled my naked flesh onto the floor and refused to clean it with the ***** sheets.

How naive to base my well being off of someone else’s existence-

(BREAK YOUR MIRRORS. Your stomach cannot handle the person he has made you become. Break your blood vessels open- the ones in your lungs. Scream about the glass-covered floor- You created this mess by trying to look at something that wasn’t real.)

He wants me to break my body like the holy wafers on Sunday when I was a child, when I still believed in things that weren’t real.

My body is his, but only when broken and scattered with prayer.

I have to strip myself clean, collect the mud that clings to my teeth in harsh clumps.
bite my tongue to resist the temptation of running it across my jaw.

There will be dust on my eyelashes but I should leave it.
(Someone Else will always brush it off.)

and this next part is very important because my Whole Life-
MY WHOLE LIFE- people have been tying rags to my Sharp Parts,
trying to Save me.

I am round, my floral underwear straining against a torso that isn’t used to the beers he never buys me.

he’s been ******* other girls

he knows that I am young; eager for it-
for the something that doesn’t exist in him.

He can see me blink, feel my aching when I wake up.

He will let me do it again.

(He’s sorry. He met someone better. Someone with taste, someone who pronounces words correctly, doesn’t laugh too loud. He’s sorry.
He never wanted to mean this much to you. He never wrote about you.
He closed his eyes when you danced. Shook his head. No. You should forgive him. He’s a ******* metaphor. He’s sorry.)

and I'm sorry.

sorry that I am
starting to make things up, starting to remember things differently.
Written by
   medha, Greenie and biche
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