I'm always talking about love
when I mean to talk about loneliness.
I find my tongue whirling into dissonance
on my too-warm skin canvas
spattered with blood
that blossom up like watercolor.
Maybe there's something
to be romanticized there.

My mother says that
you can try to smudge out faces
but the past
can still hold you by the throat--
even on a ripe ten-degree Thursday night
on Pearl Drive street.

Purple veins don't show up un-invited.
Chipping yellow paint
on the nails you bite on
doesn't exactly scream sunshine.
I've lost count of the times
I've burned my tongue on a memory;
lost track of the things I am hurt by
but don't know how to talk about.