Like a cathedral, I vaulted
my heart with bullets, torn
from my chest and
guts, blunt and melted,
wrapped my arms around
the word
"****", praying
I was one of the strong girls, the kind
that wants not, wastes,

not one of the romantics, the “hopelessly
devoted to you”, hanging on
everyone’s every word like the last
line of a love letter:
goodbye. And so I forget

wishing for the briars in my throat
to grow
and hook our hearts
together, as though
your tongue could cut me
out of my coma. I know
not to trust
in prayers and fairytales: I find myself,

an ice queen, too cold and flaky
for a lover: drunk, disappointing
everyone (but most
of all, my mother).