Well groomed,
whiskers bunched up,
tufts of hair mount at the ears.
Spikes adorn the pink flesh,
rhythmically, forcefully,
holding down rebel patches of fur.
A gentle lift of the tail,
still as it suspends in the air,
descending with an almost deliberate thud.
Amplified vibrations from the trachea;
a mutual understanding of satisfaction.
The slow rise and fall at the belly,
squinting eyes, stiff head;
familiar features of slumber.
Relentlessly seeking affection,
her presence is inevitable.

7 is for the sirens outside my door.
For the uninvited hands which relentlessly wrap around my torso,
lifting me up from the comfort of my dreams.
7 is for the screams of desperation escaping my mother's mouth,
the string of curse words she only knows how to pronounce.
7 is for the look in my father's eyes.
7 is for the look in my eyes.

7 is for visits once a month.

7 is for metal detectors, bare feet on cold, tile floors, unwelcoming stares, "step back and wait your turn".
7 is for hourly visits out in a courtyard which fails to resemble the comfort of my backyard.
7 is 267 miles away.

7 is for the way my mother's hand no longer reaches for his.
7 is for the papers which he unwillingly signs.
7 is for one-sided closure.
For the way which he still speaks of her the way astronomers speak of constellations, the way painters view their muse,
the way my mother refuses to let go of her pride.

7 is for the slight possibility of some luck.
The chance that she might backtrack in her thoughts to a time in which divorce only meant being away from the one she loves.
7 is for luck.

7 proves to be untrustworthy.
7 drags about an uncertainty which one cannot fathom.
7 brought about a spur of events enough to fill a decade in the span of a year.
7 marked the age in which I learned to view things from the other side of the spectrum.

But 7 is lucky.

You see, 7 taught me how to coat the absence of my father with the absolute presence of my mother.

7 taught her to rebuild my kingdom without a king.

Where do I begin?
In the wounded smile plastered on my face?

This face,
it says I'm sure I don't look pale.
It says that cookie sounds delicious,
but I'd rather check the scale.

This face,
it says go easy on the bread.
It says I'm not too skinny,
so just forget what mother said.

This face,
it says this isn't enough progress.
It says maybe i'll skip a meal or two,
that should speed up the process.

This face,
it says where's the girl with exceptional curves?
Thick brown locks, gleaming eyes,
Vibrant, charming, charismatic,
with a radiant smile that never fails.

So where do I begin?
I guess I should've never started.

I want you with me.
I want you in me.
Same thing, right?

Let me dust away those parts of you.
You know, those parts of you.
Perhaps I can wipe away all your insecurities?
Wipe them off my lips, you know?

Open up all those thoughts you keep hidden away.
All those thoughts you keep zipped away...
I want to hear every single one of your words.
I want to hear them loud and clear.

Oh, how you tease my curiosity with that smirk of yours.

So picture this:

A girl and her friend.
Her good friend.
Her good friend finds a better friend.
A guy, of course.

What's next?

Hidden love,
Oh, I must've forgotten,
We haven't gotten past 5th grade yet, have we?

"I love her."
"I don't like him."
"I saw them holding hands the other day."
"Are they going out?"

I don't know.

What should I recount next?
Ah, shall I start with the broken promises?
The false statements?
The most conspicuous lies?

Oh boo-hoo,
wallow in a pit of despair.
Cry me a river, why don't you?

Grab a hold of me.
Grab me.
Toss me.
Take me.

Don't kiss me,
Consume me.

The last drop,
Sweetest taste.
Yours to savor.
Devour.

Don't speak to me,
Read me.

The arch of my back,
Every curve,
Each gasp which escapes
These lips of mine.

Don't heal me,
Destroy me.

Claw through every flaw,
Healed scar.
Dig right into my flesh,
Seek the core.

Don't look at me.
Burn through me.

Explore through every crevice,
Run your fingers,
Scratch the surface,
Careful.

What lies beneath
Isn't always beauty.

It might just be the lack of sleep speaking,
but these phrases are slipping,
stumbling and tripping,
no longer resisting.