Lying on the bathroom floor
staring up at the stars
the ceiling gone, and I imagine your face
painted in the sky like a ghost
of my needs, my wants, my affections.

You laugh and stare at someone else
while I lay here, blade on the left
and bottle on the right
a cigarette at my lips
where I wish yours were.

But the end of this story is yet unwritten
and you hold the pen in your hand
I refuse to touch the items around me
in a circle like buzzards over
a dying animal.

blade. bottle. heart. cigarettes. tears. clothing. paper.

A little pile of ash rains on my collarbone.
I draw a heart
where mine used to be.
I haven't had it for quite some time.
Because I continually give it to
people who need it more than I.

And now I stare up at it
I'm not sad
but how can I be happy
with your lips on his
and my eyes on you.