summer is for holding hands, not smacking skin that's already excessively bruised with metallic rubber bands.

they don't help me shake off the nausea when I look in the mirror when a page becomes an ocean and a kiss hurdles over death to help keep the torch from giving up, from bleeding out and from gasping oxygen one last time and then realizing there's nothing left in the tank.

the woman behind the mirror can see me; we operated on such dependency that I couldn't even see you on days where I needed you the most. i never felt her hand meet my hand, certainly not with desire, at least. i try to hide my scars in discretion, like on the inside of my cheek just past where my top lip meets my bottom lip on both sides, and behind my knees where the tendons connect the big bones.

but when hide and seek was the game, you didn't ever even care to look in the obvious places, like behind the curtains where my ***** white socks were visible from rooms away.

the inside of your cheeks are so beautiful: i think they always will be for as long as we co-exist with the stars that created us. i hardly ever dream, but when i do, i'm singing to you in every pitch i possibly can about our static buzzes, gravity reversals, funeral rehearsals, and only temperature change that scientists can't agree on, which seems to always correlate with my entrance or departure into all the rooms in which I could breathe the same air as you.

empathy should be a plateau to rest on, not a mountain to climb, and so the winter is warmer and the days are shorter.

i'm not holding hands with anyone until I can take back the canvas that you laminated my fingerprints on to when you ripped them away from me without ever asking to do so.