i wish i could love you
gently, but the beating in my
chest is echoing like a choir
through cathedral halls
and i don't know how to think
about you quietly

(maybe, if there is a god, he
meant for our song to be
heard by heaven)

don't talk to me like her
like a fragile little girl
who wants a fairytale
talk to me
like you're running on an hour of sleep
out of breath
running late
talk to me
like you can't be bothered
and i promise you
i will love you forever.

when i was a kid, i pretended i could
breathe underwater so that if i was
ever caught in a wave for too long
i wouldn't panic- but now my hands are
shaking and i can feel my lungs getting tight
and my ear drums are starting to pound, and
these ceilings are
crushing
me.

the only times i tried to sink was into the ocean of
your head and climb the trees of your branches and
remember every hole made by woodpeckers, every
crease in your body like origami, every complex
part of you that i knew, i would never be able to grasp
2. my body is a guillotine, and you're in my chokehold
3. if i could explain how warped and unpredictable
my head can get, you would think i needed rehabilitation,
but i don't need rehab, i need you and since you're never
around, i feel myself draining and breaking apart again
4. if you're a book, why do you seem to abruptly
stop in midsentences? and why am i so eager for
the cliffhanger to continue?
5. you make me wanna puke until my lungs give
out but why did i wake up at three am crying
tears of joy at the simple fact that you want to
see me again after everything that's happened?
6. i would break the waves in half to bring you
back from drowning in your self hatred, bring
back the old you, and throw out the new you
7. i am not typical, i am original, so don't treat
me like i'm everyone else you meet.

- kra

She hides her Bible underneath the ****** box
because he doesn't want to have kids,
but she still prays
for his keep
every night
after he pulls long wings
from her back to her ribs—
deep passion inscriptions and hieroglyphs
with his nails as she whispers fake, unholy phrases.

She tripped into his superstition
watching him fashion his weapon—
a rosary noose
to choke blessings and psalms
out of her throat.
He rarely remembers to say goodnight,
but she traces his eyelids once he's asleep

like crop circles
making a thin bridge over his nose
connecting pinpoint constellations.
She kisses his neck and chest
over and over again,
secretly hoping
he wakes up and puts his arm around her.

She paints in the basement
with an old light bulb
listening to the hum of the space heater,
gagging on the acrylic fumes,
because he thinks all art
is useless
and all power is manmade confidence,
and the stars are just coincidence,
and he only married her
so they could ****,
finally.
Sometimes he doesn't come home,

but she makes the bacon the way he likes it,
and she presses all of his shirts twice.

And we never stop being girls at heart.
Even at 80, in the nursing home bathroom mirror,
I will probably stop
and stare, at the parchment-faced woman,
with wrinkled cheeks and drooping eyes,
and wonder where the acne faced girl,
with bright round eyes,
has hidden herself away.
I will smile at the young, handsome, CNA
as he passes in the hall, wondering
what he would think of me at 18.