The last girl I kissed told me I have a heart like a colander, it is 2007 and I have not met you yet there was no reason for my feelings to be wet grounds in coffee filter I had yet to need the caffeine, but with you, it lays there soaking more than five years of boiling into unattractive brown sequins.
I am still kind of the same: still hear pinecones hitting the roof and think that rain is falling still dream about ******* in front of my biggest infatuation.
My heart still strains a bunch of gunk, I think it could be a kidney too but now it simmers for a while first and stores images in locket cases, now sometimes I believe in love, it is 2013 and my name means serene yours is “wealth” for every bit of love you can collect, are keeping.
The last girl I kissed would not believe I gave any at all I even rejected the sea because inside every conch, I heard creatures who could touch me if I would just climb into their shell-walled places.
When I was thirteen, I attempted to cook pasta without water, this was also when I was obsessed with cutting every photograph in my mother’s reserve either to display it on my white plaster door or to **** those pictured. I murdered eight different family members and myself nine times without even sending them through a paper shredder.
I am still kind of the same: though I soak everything up before I can throw it away.