I can hear my bones talking to God, they ask him why he hates us and he says he wrote the fracture lines in our skin with perfect precision, he did not create us with the knowledge to heal.
And yet.

I sit here, using the pen I stole to write this
And wonder if you see my face in the steam of your coffee
Like I hear your voice in the half-murmurs of everyone around me
I count 11 empty seats in this cafe and see your ghost in all of them
When I met you, you smelled like ground beans and woodsmoke
Velvet against my mouth, I had become addicted
To your taste, both bitter and sweet
I would cup your face in my hands and tell you
That there was more warmth here than any drink
Your hazelnut eyes crinkled and we would laugh
Throaty and dark, I melted into the hum of it
When you left me, every glass in the house shattered
I was made entirely of cracks, overfull and leaking
My heartbreak a great chip that grew only larger
We touched for the last time and I felt the fire of you
Found it scalding against my cheek
The whisper of a bonfire as you walked away
Only tar black and thick against my rasping throat
I choked on every memory of your lips
Still, sat here, in this room that is all you
Only 2 empty seats now, enough for us
Enough for our ghosts to laugh together
I pack away the books, the stolen pens
Leave my latte, grown colder now
Untouched

Bullet-hole chest
Me, a girl with parts missing
You, a smile with a smoking gun
caught in a war zone of I still love you
Refugee to the emotions that still hold me sway
Gentle as you killed me,
Kind at the slaughter
I died with tears drying on my face
And lips still shaped to kiss you
I never even saw the knife

French vanilla Converse,
  taupe-boxed flannel (too big),
and an American Spirit burning,
  real, real slow. What a hipster ****;
what a culture-eating parasite.
  He says, 'Read Proust with me.'
He says something about how
  his dad is dead but not in
a literal sense; metaphorically.
  I was never interested in that part
in the avant-garde spoken poetry Friday nights.

  I bust into the bathroom
and *****, grasping
  Bed Bath and Beyond clearance items.
The walls are the same shade
  of green as my skin.
A hand pets my thigh and I'm told
  it'll all be okay.
How those knuckles knew,
  I'll never know.

Every sentence is shaped like a question
My whole existence is asking for permission
There are hidden apologies in my 'ums'
Shyness on the tongue