What is my brain made of?
You.
It’s swollen pink with your handprints and eternal pleasures.
I’ve been quiet for a minute, closing my eyes in the dark room and feeling fingertips dance on my spine.
You could make my hoarse throat sing lyrics I had never heard before.

Pleasure.

Withdrawals.
A container for your memories now,
I hold every second of contact, every touch, every word in my head.
My brain is made of you.
You’re the greatest good that has killed me.

All I need, gone.
I would cut my head off if you weren’t still holding me together,

or, I could,
but something tells me you’d watch it roll down a hill.

-Chloe Aldecoa