This boy lying in between my sheets has a body like a ****** nose. If it were up to me his teeth would be bruised, but instead his shins are covered in broken thunder. Last night lying next to him was dark as damp childhood hair (from getting out of the pool, from just learning how to swim, from just learning how to feel ashamed of my body, all wet like fresh lips). Last night was so dark I had to hold my breath: held it for 7 seconds before I yelped for air.
This boy is not mine. This boy is like somebody else’s death: he is hardly with me. This boy sits still and cross-legged in between my sheets like a black crab. He looks all skewed and crooked, all out of place. When he touches me I kick him, my legs flustering out and then recoiling back in like dying ancestors.
Lately it’s felt like I’m dying over and over again, like I am dying with him. This morning I wait for him to leave, and then to die, and then to wake up again, spring up like small new gravestones.
Every boy I have ever loved has killed himself. Murmur the word “suicide” to me before I sleep and I will dream about the days when I used to feel dizzy, always, when I used to faint, always, when I used to peck at my mosquito bites, always.
can't stop listening to elvis depressedly // can't stop listening to elvis depressedly & getting emotional & crying & writing in the school library