I hope you talk about me when you're slammed,
laying in the hall playing soccer at 2am.
I hope you see my reflection in the smashed mirror
from an aggressive kick you missed blocking.
I hope my shattered complexion reflects
in the broken glass
like a soft reminder that beckons you back
to your bed. A memory from a week ago rises,
when you were singing me a song
through your lips and cradling my expectations.

I played keeper and you were just trying to score.
Our roles reversed.
You dribbled me for a good while,
spinning on the ground you drug me on
just trying to catch hold.
I already had stains; I didn't need new ones.

I hope you talk about me when you're sipping
on something that will numb you seven different ways to Sunday.
I hope people have to stop you from calling me,
"It's all ****** up," you whine
with your eyes closed
about how you messed with me--
what happened there?
Take another shot.

I hope you talk about me.

We sweat out the holy stuff.
You used my ribs like one uses
the rough side of a matchbox
striking up your fingertips
to light the rest of my skin on fire.

I'm glad I was just another burnt tip
in your collection.
I'm glad it was an easy discard.

I took a mental photograph
of you in that moment--
Bare chest, pulling down your boxers,
holding my face like one molds a statue,
bite marks on my jaw line.

I smoldered in your sheets,
you kicked me out of bed.
This must be what Pompeii  looked like
after all the ashes cleared.

I'm glad I was just another pretty girl
you liked to watch go up in flames.

I'm glad you didn't ask me to stay.

It seems that depression
has a magnetic pull to poets.
We wear it, our stubborn scarlet letter,
Hidden between crinkled pages and ink spattered hands.
Our fickle muse,
if he stays around too long, he smothers us,
till we cannot even lift the pen,
and the words are left to swim around in circles
of darkening thought.

You don't know it yet but
I've lost my leaves.
While you keep
Yours evergreen.
Are they honest?
These thorns you throw.
They pierce my bark.
Some wounds bleed.
Some simply remain
Like memories
Or worries.
I think our veins should be entwined;
You are behind a clearing.
I notice your silhouette,
Your back against the light.
I am dropping my leaves at your stem,
Hoping you will embrace winter too.
The grass between us is scattered with
Flowers beneath the snow.
I wish I could gather them
To give to you.
But your thorns
Have me frozen.
I cannot breath.
For if I crack another will pierce me.
So lose your leaves!
Show your branches: thorns exposed.
I will embrace them and let the
Blood flow,
I will gather
The Crimson
In my heart.

I knew it wasn't you that passed me
On a bike this morning, but oh,
It looked like you. God,
He looked like you.

And I'm glad he was on a bike,
Somewhat because he wasn't you and
That meant I could let my head
Turn, let myself watch him pass by
With open hunger the way
I could never watch you,
But mostly because on foot I would have
Pulled him close by the coat that
Looked like one you wear and
Whisper in his ear,
"You look like the boy I want to ****,"

And I didn't want to get arrested,
And I didn't want him to take me up
On my offer
(But part of me wanted him to take me

Up on my offer
Because you never would)
Because I didn't know this was
Anything more than hero worship,
I thought this was little love,
Hearts in margins and
Poems in black ink,
I didn't know this was the kind of
Feeling that had people accosting
Delivery boys for wearing dark jackets

And I think I need to give up quick
Before you, me, or the delivery boy
Gets hurt.

'Q

Your worst days
Are why I can't break up with you
And why I have to.