Two years later and
I'm still writing poems about what it would feel like to
strangle you in your sleep,
Just so you'd know how it feels.
I still wake up some nights,
choking
on that time you said
if you could be anyone you'd crawl into my skin
and live in it,
if only so you could call me crazy
and know you were right.
(Only in my dreams do I tell you
that was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me)
Sometimes I forget my bed is a time machine,
turning scar to scab and scab to blood.
I'm a magic trick, I'm a razor blade,
turn me sideways and watch them
disappear.
To the people who only talk to me in my memories.
