I told the stars to shut up.
They weren’t witnesses. They were worse.
They kept spelling your name,
blinking slow, like pity,
glinting gallant-
like that ever saved anyone.

I walked past the summer we called ours
like I wasn’t still stalking it.
Like I didn’t prowl on purpose,
like I didn’t rehearse your alibi,
like I didn’t pray
(for prey.)

I was fine with the trees, the oil stains,
the way the sun pretended nothing happened.
I could go days without hearing an ice cream truck,
or seeing a sun-burnt stranger
and thinking: maybe the universe
rerouted you into someone
I could almost survive.

You once said I was dangerous.
And by once I mean
I wrote it down
and heard it forever.
It’s in my lymph nodes,
in the poems you pretend not to read.
It’s in the version of me
you kept almost loving
but never quite chose.

You called us perilous.
Or maybe I did.
It’s hard to tell, since
I’ve been writing you
with your mouth shut
for months.

I keep checking the margins
for your voice.
All I got were
the noises people make
when they’re trying not to drown,
but pretending to wave.

Why is your name still more siren
than sentence?
Still more blood than bruise?
I made your absence
a body I slept beside,
because I kept waking up
guilty.

I never served,
but I wrote the ending.
Put my hand on a Bible,
bit my tongue so hard
the truth still tastes like you.
Wore borrowed pearls,
and swore to God
I never loved you more
than the day you didn’t show up.

I would’ve done time for you.
I would’ve confessed to a crime
that didn’t exist
just to hold your hand once
on the courthouse steps.

You said I was dangerous.
You were right.
But not in the way you thought.
I told the whole truth-
just not out loud.

You didn’t get convicted.
But I still can’t go back
to that summer
without thinking the tan lines
were warning signs,
without getting subpoenaed
by the sky.

Some nights,
your name still tries to get in
like a burglar.
I play dead,
tell the stars to shut up.
But they unlock the window anyway.
They spell you out in light
like they want me to remember
how it felt
to be the crime scene.

The kitchen smells like a secret I forgot to bury.
A peach gone soft, skin splitting like a bad promise.
The fruit flies know something I don’t;
they’re the last priests of a dying faith,
and they’re waiting for me to leak.

I tell myself I’m healing,
but last night I dreamt I had to eat your heart to survive.
It tasted like burnt sugar and nail polish remover.
I woke up gasping,
your name soldered to the roof of my mouth
like a curse I didn’t mean to cast.

I call it the trick of wanting:
how I keep looking for your fingerprints in places you never touched,
how I flinch when someone says my name in the dark,
how I let the mirror watch me shatter
and pretend I’m a stained glass window.

Here’s the part I shouldn’t post:
I liked it when you lied to me.
I liked it when you said this isn’t about love
and I let you mean it’s about power.

The fruit flies keep coming.
I pretend they’re a sign from God.
I pretend they’re angels. Or demons.
Never both.
I pretend they’re a reminder that sweetness
is just another word for rot.
I pretend the buzzing is the sound of my name-
fermenting in your guts,
putrefying in your chest,
decomposing in your memory like abandoned fruit.

I know I shouldn’t write this.
But I do.
Because I want you to see it.
Because I want you to flinch.

Because I want you to know:
I am the girl who would eat your heart if I could.
I would peel it open with my teeth,
lick the blood off my lips,
smile like a god in a red dress,
and call it love.

And you’d believe me.

I meant to confess
but the pencil cramped my hand
and I figured heartbreak
was already too messy
without my bad handwriting.

you spoke with your back turned
like nothing was wrong
the kettle sat screaming
its blistering song

your eyes crack with thunder
I don’t look away.
I taste every stormcloud
and swallow the rain

you asked if I loved you
then smirked at the floor
i said it too slowly,
you moved for the door

We fought in the hallway,
your knuckles went red.
You hit without blinking
and meant what you said.

you find every fracture
then press where it stings
You say, “it’s devotion,”
and tighten your strings.

You lean in, now limping,
your voice raw and rough.
We clutch like survivors
who'd suffered enough.

Your hands then remember
what you never confessed,
you kiss where you hurt me
and ask for the rest.

but still, when you’re shaking,
and all fury’s gone,
I gather your pieces
and whisper a song

I stitched up the silence
you gave me to keep
and rocked us together
til sorrow found sleep

We curled in the ash
what didn’t survive,
and found even ruin
leaves something alive.

At mercy's feet a coward came
Revoke the spell that brand me shame
Immortal cloak, With cold embrace
Preserve this soul unlinked from grace

Confess thy struggles says the thought
A thousand deeds undo no drought
To wash thy guilt complete with haste
Anoint with almond, pray no waste

(Urge)
A past repeat, if time recall
Invoking every shameful fall
Controlled by lust, my handy deeds
deny this groin, its pleasure needs

(Thought)
Your reckon day, awaits its fate
To settle heaven's pass at gate
by night, an hour of death will prey
it's waste of time to weep and pray

Everyone thinks I’m an idiot.
Even me.

My friends think I’m funny
but not smart,
not sharp.

I got a certificate to belay while rock climbing
just so I could be like my friends,
but Ryan wouldn’t let me belay him.

Claire thinks I’m not good enough
to teach others how to climb.

Mira told me,
“you’re the last person I thought would know the answer,”
while we were studying for a final.

I felt unsteady afterward,
like I was winded.

My mood sank fast.
There was a pressure in my abdomen -
like I had to take a ****
but I was holding it in.

And on the same note,
I wanted to run
away,
out of sight,
so I could **** in peace.

But instead,
I laughed it off
and smoked cigarettes on the porch
when I got home
because I’m too stupid
to read the label.

I am convinced by my own actions, too
although I can’t decide
if it’s my forgetful brain
or just my personality:
aloof,
head in the clouds.

I remember walking through the halls of high school,
friends passing by, trying to get my attention
but I was staring at the ceiling again,
at the scattered marks, how they had no pattern,
and how that somehow made me uncomfortable.

Either way,
the stupidity sticks.

I wore apathy like armor
but cracked every time you looked at me
like I was worth being seen.

Even now I blamed timing.
As if clocks are crueler than my own hesitation.
As if love didn’t stand right in front of me
and wait with open hands
as mine stayed tucked in pockets.

I convinced myself I was unworthy
before anyone else had the chance to.
I set fire to every almost
just to say “see, it was never going to last”
like that made it less my fault.

Still, I write this like it matters—
like this confession changes anything.
But all it does
is remind me
that I had everything
and still chose nothing.

you, serendipity
i didn't expect you
but you're the best birthday gift i've received all year
and mind you, my birthday's a long time from now.

i didn't know you've waited
since middle school, for this to all work out
but i'm glad you did
so glad you did

we officially met...maybe a week ago when you confessed
so then why do you make me feel like the one having the crush?
so many things i won't understand
but so many things i hope we'll figure out together, levi.

there was never enough paper
never enough books
the pens contained me
the key clicks asked to trace back too much
the paint had its own stories too
the dance was too visceral
the film was incoherent
and so i lived and died into them all
the masterful rebellion

and then your skin, when it was my paper
my canvas, my strings, my music
every flinch and gasp and breath was like art complete