The last night we were officially in love, the evening the carousel
was out of order

I watched it spin again and again
without any lights or sound, pleading with god to
make me one of the great pegasus forms illuminated by moon
and fake snow.

It would not have mattered,
my feet would have still been bolted to the December floor
a hundred miles, then another, then another

from you. I realize now that it would not have mattered if I had a
pair of wings, I still would have
never made it to you
(but I believed it then). Ungloved to dabble in hot cocoa,
my ten fingers dialed you:
I pretended to have seen real snow, you pretended to love me.

Yesterday, I felt like you
for the first time since I wanted anything to do with you,
remembering the final time you said you loved me. I was there
in the same body that phoned you in winter

watching a broken carousel circle again and again, I was
approximately two inches from
where I stood when you told me goodnight

(and you meant it, where I said goodbye, and I meant it more)
but I had forgotten the moment. Yesterday

I learned I can forget you as easily as you
had me. Remembering us mattered so little that I climbed on the
carousel, tasted the bubblegum lights
hummed to an ice cream truck song, and
declared it the last day I would ever officially think of you,
the morning the merry-go-round did not need the sun anymore.

There are no calories in coffee, there is nothing in my belly
except millipede fingers and toes trying to
impregnate me.

Little calorie ghosts and wandering pieces of meat,
what is left of what I eat eat eat
insects making me bleed bleed bleed,
one warms my hips
the other drags cool metal against my skin, catches on the
veins like loose strings. I am metallic
I taste it from inside my *****, down onto my feet.

Breaking bones, massaging wombs
coffee and centipede
shards carve out my ribcage when I do not like how I feel.

I deserve to take up space,
he said. (six by four feet in an underground
cage)

mama said I never stop crying,
that I'll still scream when I am dead. she
reserved me a plot.

I have loves who
would be mad I left a note.

I have loves who will keep me their ghost, tear
my white sheet skin
because I never said goodbye.

see my flesh
in a necklace,  hypnotize happy boys
you are getting very sleepy

very tired of
holding onto something half-dead.

As a warning, I may impulsively delete my account within a few days. I am at a loss with my writing, and the hate I feel for it is affecting my mental health. A lot of what is here is disgusting. I apologize to everyone.

I have begun to
pluck my eyelashes just so
I can make a wish.

I used to sing a lot, used to lace pearls on flower petals
and the sea would sing to me. I have heard that my female body syncs
with the moon
that I am a tide, my mood is high my mood is low
                            I am a force of nature Mother Earth can hold.

The idea hits me. My heart is set on fire by it:
I am the reason some rocks are heart-shaped, my fluids
can create layers on ammolite.

Even my ***** could purify a pond,
I am earth I am water I am wind I am fire I am juice squeezed from
apples and orange peels
                    only the sun can gather my pulp.

I watch a father star cradle its firstborn
and we exhale on the same sky, I cannot believe it. We eat and drink
from the clouds -                          my clouds, our light.

The opal loves her body (she shines) the wind loves her body (swaying)
birds with fat bellies sing to me and
every one wiggles her ****
because she loves her body - why shouldn't I.
        (There could be pieces of me in everything beautiful).

Your tongue used to sneak in my mouth
like the old days, girls climbing trees to sneak in an older boy's bedroom:
he had a single bed and plaid sheets she would think of
in the same way she thought of wrinkled bubblegum wrappers
but neither tried to taste good for the other. The
boy and the girl just were what they were, just hidden in each other.

My hands could be the bedposts, my hair the headboard,
my skin the blanket she will dig her fingers into, thinking what is home
what is home - somehow it has become a
tap on the window, a whispered I am here, hello.

You helped me to get over my fear of silence,
my chirophobia. When everything was meant to be quiet, when we have
nothing to say, you would pour honey down my throat
and hold hold hold me tight
so tight that it would seem everyone knew. I imagined turning on
the television, there would be an image of us lighting up Times Square:
you would calm the whole wide world. It took us years
to realize that we have the kind of love that is always, always okay.

The girl shimmies down the tree, an old oak
so tall she feels like she has dropped fifty stories before she finds grass,
she feels like she has lost fifty feet worth of body and flesh.

His window is open, her lips separate, it silent and
it is okay. She mouths, I miss you
then climbs up again almost desperately, completely dependent on her
legs to pump air into her lungs and breathe through the pores -
blackbirds see up vines up her skirt, and twigs
bruises like wide bushes and then his hands like a nest. What is home.

Your saliva grew like moss against my cheeks,
I once bit and bled in my sleep, had nightmares so I could hear something
but you gave my teeth a garden to pick vegetables from
and I stopped needing traffic to rock me
to bed: your tongue used to sneak in my mouth, now I have its words.