You kissed me
like the hands of time were in my mouth
and you were trying to restart my clock.
But what you failed to ask
was if my hands needed the readjustment.
I guess you misunderstood my constant clockwise motion
as a "pass GO and collect $200"
but what I really meant
was you stepped on my property,
violated my fertile grounds
but even then you still didn't have to pay a fine.
I was telling you
keep moving
this land was not reserved for you
but with your hands around my throat
you made it impossible to communicate that to you.
You bruised me
and you broke me
and the splintered remains of my ribcage
pierced through my skin
but they were not sharp enough to hurt you back.
You left me in a heap of melted skin
burned by your body
like you were ashing out your cigarette
on every limb that you could get your hands on.
I think you're part of the reason I quit smoking.
Because sometimes if I search hard enough,
I can still taste that nicotine in the back of my throat
tucked away in-between my gums and the darkness.
What you had planted inside of me
was a garden of dead flowers
but the forget-me-nots were still alive for sheer irony.
Before you left,
you spit on me and said "you're a poet right?
well write about this."
The next morning I gave myself a funeral
and buried the rest of the words that collapsed in my throat
and I don't think I've ever seen a hole so big.
Now, when I smell Evan William's Honey Whiskey
my stomach still knots like a boy scout trying to earn his next badge,
frightfully trying to tie together some loose ends
but they always seem to unravel right before it really matters.
The scout leader is on his last round
and oh god he has to get this right
or his father won't let him sleep tonight
he'll have to keep tying until he gets it right
and even then his father's whiskey breath will still be over his shoulder
hovering like a hound
teeth bared and snarling
whispering "are you scared yet?"
and the boy scout will cry but still say no
because his mother taught him that meant something different
and maybe thats why you didn't stop when i asked you to.
Like the combination of tears and No somehow meant consent
but i know you were raised better.
I've been inside your childhood home,
I've seen where your mother makes breakfast every sunday,
I've watched her place soft kisses
like feathers
upon your forehead.
We've shared memories like a cup with two straws,
sipping on time and old photographs.
For ten years
I considered it a privilege to know you,
an honor to call you my best ******* friend.
But now I cannot hear your name
without the physical reaction of getting sick,
as if releasing bile from the pit of my stomach
could stop this night from haunting me.
Whenever i go to the grocery store,
I see your mothers red van
and her cart full of flowers and fruits
and sometimes your favorite foods are piled up inside too.
She'll ask how i'm doing and why she hasn't seen me at the house lately
and i'll be forced to say i've just been busy
but don't worry because i'm fine.
She always taught me that i was supposed to be fine.
So what did she teach you?