her skin tastes like sour patched kids
and she was a
sour,
patched
kid,
with more stories about rusty space ships
than about boys who say no.

my brain feels like a galaxy that eats itself slowly,
one star at a time.

his face sounds like a cresent moon
without the soft hum of adventure.
slowly dripping from his eyes was the fluid from his lungs
and he cried his death away.

my lips smell like anxiety
it's a familiar smell
but lingering faintly is the loss of sugar plum fairies and candy cane wishes.