I wanna marry a man who isn’t really
a man, but the illusion of one,
he’s actually just a cut out,
and I want to write his name in my
blood on the church so that God
knows
that I am okay alone.
And I’m tired of checking up
on how you’re doing,
because you probably don’t think of
me.
We sit on the fire escape at dawn,
my cardboard husband and I,
and we smoke cigarettes
and he burns a little
because paper is flammable.
When the sun comes up,
I feel you.
Landslide, land mine, landline, and
the burns on my tongue.
Bitter coffee and it’s not so bitter
compared to the taste of the spiders
crawling from my mouth,
and when I think of you
...You probably don’t think of me.
I’d write your name on the church,
but I don’t have enough blood for
two names.