daylight wakes me up and i turn into the green moth on the windshield.
a few months ago i would have died to be someone with the same kind of pulse
as you. i wanted to know what it felt like to breathe your same
air and listen to the fabrication of your words, your lies like lists of things
you wanted me to hear, essays crafted to the palaces of my mind.
you knew what i wanted because you know the architecture of so many women—
not seeing my poisonous nature, the blisteringly sweet aftertaste that crumples
you into me again, again, again, each hit better than the last. together
we chase the dragon, needing more and more of each other
to understand what it means to be alone.
being alone is different than screaming into the pillows as sunlight peers through
the blinds, a curious onlooker. i never remembered falling asleep but i always remember
how strange the light looked, and my nightmares before i woke up being crushed
beneath your arm. my neck was sore from being jammed into the corner of the bed
by your body. you got as close to me as you possibly could, i guess.
but i didn’t really mind, i could still wake up a few hours later to the feeling of you
pressing in me, orienting me with the dripping sounds of my moans.
i used to be so sad that i didn’t know what it felt like to not be in physical pain from it.
i only existed, on strings of thought, vomit, pills, lapses of time, stolen,
shame, regret. my bruises were blue-grey pieces of cut glass, worn around my legs like
some sparkling geodes, crystals and signs of illness. i regarded my
surroundings as a myriad of bathrooms and plastic bags and trash cans and
showers in which i spewed puke at any point in the day, my hands
shaking, knees quivering. i saw my face in the mirror and realised
that i no longer had a life i could call my own.
you will be turned into something i may keep. fluorescent, smoking, the fire goes out
and i am staring at the tantric circles burned into my flesh, made by the way
your bloodshot eyes roamed. jesus you whispered, atheist hands
tucked in the front pockets of your jeans. thumbs out, some gesture of confidence.
i could have kissed you, all of your names and faces folding and burning
under my lips. i don’t care who you are anymore, i just want one of you
to take care of me, let me be yours. the wicked scent buried in my pillows
reminds me of the idea of you versus the reality of you. whatever the differences are,
i wish to be something like your scent, something you bury in me. i wouldn’t mind
being your grave, your silence. the end to your means.
you can kill me if you want, and bless my meat for your sweet lips,
knowing what to pair me with and how to taste me for the last time, savour,
letting me linger on your tongue where i belong. the pain of knowing what
you are is the warmest part of me. my body is married to the dirt by nightfall,
covered in milky hairs, a touch like ice. the river is dark and heavy, pulling
in the back of my head with the tide mesmerizing all of this gravity, memorising me.
the moon very well may end up a brittle grey instrument in my throat. the patch of sky
i can barely see between the trees is a lightless cove, every star hidden in your blank stare.
you could weave constellations in the spilling strands of my organs, pointing out the atrocities,
the faults, the stars i’d die by.