Words stick to skin like bad dreams. Awake, cold sweat, twisted in sheets with a half-remembered phrase. Every story has a part of it that's true. That’s why I lie.
I’m sorry about your bedding. I’m sorry about my teeth, about the edge that tells me to laugh when I know I shouldn’t, and I’m sorry about the way I pull your hair when you’re above me- I forget that it’s not mine.
I used to collect ideas like friendship bracelets on the last day of camp, I used to listen to your breath catch in sleep and wish that I had pitched it. I used to think in stanzas, and sigh into verses, like a poem about a poem about a poem.
Now I barely think. I miss thoughts like trains. I sweat your bed. I hold your attention like a bouquet, then knot it like a tourniquet. I keep patience like a promise. Now I collect only what I can taste, only what I can swallow whole.