Let’s not make this pleasant.
I don’t want to sigh or breathe my memories into you;
I want to spit them into you.
I want to set you on fire with all that I’ve felt,
and watch you writhe in the burning pain that is me.
I will not put you out until I’ve charred your skin
and can peel it from the bone with ease,
just as you have done to me.

To be clear, I refuse to be pretty.
I want the blood to stay under my fingernails
and the bags under my eyes to darken.
I am not the daisy-freshness of spring.
I am grotesque.
I am skin
and bone
and blood
and bile
and spit.