You stain;
All dewy and lustrous,
On my bed sheets on
A Sunday morning,








You drip like viscous
Milk down my thighs,










You thought of another
The whole time

 Maybe if you just hit me

A little bit harder

You could shape my darling face

Into the girls you like to watch
Online 

This town              reeks of you,

You stick             to all my clothes,

All humid by                   our love;

You brine the             air by your

Salty tears,               the stench of how 

We were                so venomous,

Never really                   leaves this place;

This town             dreams of you,

In silver spoons              force fed all the lies,

Gentle hands                   but rough intentions,

Your tears washing             the inside of my thighs;

Rough cannot              be bruised,

Not as much skin                    To keep as much heart;

This town               has had enough of you,

Like heaven,               in all the wrong ways,

The pain,                  It demands to be felt;

My knees,              They shake,

My heart,                           It aches,

Both subjects              of our own distrust,

Burnt out flames             Should never reignite 

 Today I ate       out of griefs unforgiving hand

And I thanked him         for all the crumbs,

It tasted so much         like what I had for lunch

Everyday for a         few years now,

He wonders how         I haven't gotten sick of it yet;

I tell him it reminds me         of my Mothers cooking 

On a Sunday afternoon             Microwaved meals and 

Bruised knees over the counter;                  Fathers dirty dishes 

Climbing up the walls                   Smoking slims in his green bathroom;

Faux smiles and untied shoelaces                   Toothbrush in my backpack:

Grandmas leftovers on my lips                  Leaves a residue on your skin;

I try not to stain,                  Be like watercolor, rinse off in the rain

It's hard to pretend not to be             All the things you grew up 

Being;

And for you, I keep my phone off silent

My legs wide open

When you call, I answer

My clothes all over your floor

And for you I'll stay sober for a little while longer

Or drunk when you bend me over

And for you I'll ignore my mother

Hit me harder

Only pretty when I'm crying

Only present when I'm hurting

And for you I'll swallow your fingers like a prayer 

Hit me harder

For you I'll let you treat me like a filler

Only need me when your aching

Hit me harder

Only present when I'm hurting

Can't sleep until you tell me

Won't eat until you let me

Only drunk until you bend me, for you

Sleep while I ache,

What love is this

Tell me so I may avoid it

Don't know what it feels like coming home,

Close the door

 I have always wanted to ask, does it hurt?

Does it hurt when you rest your palms onto my chest;

Because in time, when my hands grow weak,

And my lips seal shut,

in time, 

You will touch your body

And feel the cold parts of yourself 

That used to mingle perfectly with mine;

And it will hurt, it will hurt like the first time I ever got to taste the inside of your mouth,

Promise me that when I burn, you will not burn with me;

For winter comes again,

And the cold leaves

Bitter memories

You have very sad eyes,

Remind me of my own

Hands soft but worn out

Would look good around my throat,

Like coming back home;

Today I am a shy brunette;

Golden locks in memory of a childhood

Where my pride would hang loose around

My waist;

We never talk about it though as
I drink beside you stale white wine,

Gloss staining the brim of my almost full glass,
I ask about your job but never about 

The golden ring around your finger 

As we eat cherries by the sea outside your car,
You start to tell me about your past
And I pretend to listen


I sleep with you but I
Never call you back





Today I am a cheeky red head;

Laughter like fireworks and eyes like that girl
You like to see naked online,

I expect you to pay for dinner as I show up
In a dress made of silk, you think I am a lady

I think you are a joke

Laugh at all your mundane jokes in hopes I
Make you think I am naïve and dumb

You tell me you want a wife

I tell you I want a life

Today I am an innocent blonde, 

The smell of rosemary on my 

Pink summer clothes, 

We make eye contact as I 

Sip my oatmeal latte from across

The café, 

You give me money only when 

I behave like a good little girl,

My mother always taught me from

A young little girl

That table manners are important, 

So I use the right fork to cut my steak

And you give me more money

Just for being quiet and hidden

When your wife comes home

For lunch break 

Today I am a sly girl with black hair;

Eyes darker than your past,

Mouth like sirens roaring through the night;

I never take off all my clothes at once 

And you never talk about me to your dad;

We catch sunsets every weekend in hopes

You can talk to me with your hands

In the backseat of your busted car,

I make sure to never ask you about your scars

Every time you put your shirt back on

Your palms give me a migraine 

I walk home

Every time

Today I am a skinhead,

A girl only from the waist

Down, but it doesn't matter 

Since you barely see my head

When we have sex in the dark;

You like to spice up your life

And I like cutting my hair when

I feel most suicidal, but lucky for us

My hair grows back faster and faster

Each month,

You tell all your friends about me

For all the wrong reasons, but you like

To turn on all the lights when I try a 

New wig on, and you tell all your friends

That you sleep with a different girl

Every night 

You always said you wanted to see

Other people, one of your biggest dreams

Was a threesome, so every night we fuck 

Me, you and my depression

You said you liked your girls mysterious, 

Layers like an onion, showing too much

But saying too little,

You loved me a little bit harder

With my hair dolled up and mouth 

Sewn shut from all the gloss

I met your mother as a brunette, and your

Father as a blonde, your friends know

All 7 sides of me, one for every

Day of the week, on Wednesdays I wear pink

And Thursdays I wear my long hair enough

To cover up my tear stained cheeks

but you only see me

The way you want to see me, 

Lights on when I wear

Your favorite hair 

Lights off when 

I remind you

Too much

Of the real

Me

 I cling to everything-

A chipped coffee mug with stains

Too stubborn to wash off. She'd only drink out of that one.

Cheap rings that turn my poor

Fingers green;

A worn-out necklace I found in her bedroom

The day my heart spoke louder than my mouth.

A recipe for Carrot cake she said she'd make one day.

I was never a lover of carrot cake,

But I did love her.

A shitty portrait of me I drew when I was twelve;

I never had the courage to take it off her wall.

A time vessel one would be silly to disturb,

In case it made it all seem a little

Too real.

Soiled birthday cards hidden at the bottom of my drawers,

Love you booboo, your grandmother x barely visible 

From all the tear stained fingertips that held onto it

On nights where the world seemed too small

And my grief too large

A wine-stained notepad discarded under my bed

That held all the secrets to my wounds.

The first, and last, scissors I ever cut my hair with.

My hair, how she loved it,

Is something I cling to the most.

Month after month,

I sit in silent agony

As my hair rips through my scalp, ever so slowly,

To give birth to long golden locks

She would have had half the mind to stay alive

To witness.

That is the only remembrance

I know how to give her

After she chose to jump
out of her window

As If to fly straight 
into the mouth of the reaper.

 

Old letters from friends, a toy dinosaur my first cat loved to play with,

CDs with love songs that play on loop, my mothers childhood blanket,

A discolored photograph from her wedding a lifetime ago.

As I sit, boring holes into that picture with my worn-out eyes,

I wonder if she knows

How painful it is

Growing the same hair out of my scalp

That she once wore.

 

Was it as painful

As the sharp concrete

That kissed her sunken cheek

In reunion?

I cling to the answer

I'll never know.

I've entered the new year 

The same way

I've entered this life,

Crying and full of blood

That isn't my own. 

 It is January and I keep rocking my head in-between my knees 
Until I feel car sick. The flowers are still sleeping and I wish I could, too.

I chain smoke cheap cigarettes until my hair smells less like you leaving home,

And more like you picking up the phone.

I call you on my fifth glass of wine, and block your number on my sixth.

On my seventh, I take foggy pictures of every sunset dipping behind the trees of our favorite park;

The only measure of time I know how to document

Your absence. 

As if to make it more real.

As if I don't chew gum until my teeth hurt.

As if I am not loud enough in my aching, no one can look.

It is January and I cherry pick my tinder dates until they all morph into an image of your face;

Cry to my friends until they 

All have somewhere to be.

Lock myself in an empty apartment

Until someone comes looking.

Wear my shoes on the wrong feet

Until I walk around town feeling

Like a different person.

The city holds shadows I am not ready to admit exist,

Not yet ready to admit I need to leave.

Wear lipstick a few shades too dark to find my stained cup easier at the bar,

Laugh with strangers like they hold all the answers to my wounds.

Bleed on all the people I try to flirt with, save phone numbers I'll never call. 

I don't know how.

It is January and I still don't know how

You can drink five glasses of wine,

And not think about me

The way I think about you 

Vicious my attempts

To birth words from my fingertips

As if to mold clay from the ashes;

An exhale never deemed 

So tiresome

An inhale, so void

My hands, so barren 

With the promise of 

Expression;

Winter sweeps my bedroom floors

With a light feather,

Giggling at my feet, 

As if to silently bring despair 
And make a home to sit,

The winds rock me as I sleep

I dream of a house built from sorrow;

Etched into the granite of a childhood,

An echo of the past stained on a coffee mug

Copper is the song of the memory

That leaches onto me like a child

To a breast;

Like amber sap on a tree;

I tarnish the thought of you

With every passing week

Downing unforgiving spirits 

To erase the album of your smile

Flickering picture through picture

They all blend into one;

Only to be repainted with the light

Of the morning sun

Time is an unforgiving healer

My hands, they tremble 

Under such weight

 Grief is just love,

With nowhere to go

And I've nowhere to go but here,

And here is a wolf with a giant mouth

And here devours my lust for life

For life is but me fighting to repair

What it has broken mercilessly;

For here sinks its teeth into my neck

And has me begging for exile to a place

I do not know if exists, but against all odds,

I cling to hope like a child to a breast

And if I let go, I let life win her savage game