muscle memory drags me down onto my knees, mouth mechanically open like a good girl. my mind can erase your teary-eyed screams for a fucking blowjob, but my shoulders will never forget the blistering pain from a simple maybe later. so i fight the urge to argue and slouch to make myself small because you like obedient good girls. you like holding my chin a little too rough just to stop my trembling. you like pulling my hair a little too tight just to watch strands fall out oh so easily because you like small good girls. my body is whatever you want it to be because it learned a long time ago it'd rather be starving than bruised because no one can know and no one has to know. i needed to lose the weight anyway.
it is thundering.
Fact: There is a cold wetness on my forehead.
Fact: The droplets on my glasses blurry my vision.
Fact: I used to love the nighttime.
Is it raining?
Maybe I’m seeing wrong. Maybe,
I’m not remembering
the weather prediction right. Maybe,
I’m too tired to think clearly.
You don’t have wet hair that clings your face
like mine does. You say I’m insane
for shivering and pulling my jacket tighter.
Maybe my mind is fooling me. Maybe,
I’m not drowing. Maybe,
I’m not gasping for air. No one else is.
You’re making things up.
It wasn’t that bad.
You don’t remember it right.
Why are you making things up?
Do I not remember it right?
The memories are hazy, but I felt
thunderstorms that flooded my bones and
swept away the oxygen. I felt
lightning that struck my hands paralyzed.
Or was that you? Holding my wrists down as you screamed
how much you wanted to hurt me.
But you stopped yourself, because you would be the bigger person.
I remember thanking you
for not hitting me.
Fact: It is raining.
it rained all night
time slips in the puddles of our late-night thoughts, and i stare in giddy disbelief at my hands holding the winning tickets to a seat at the orchestra of your mind. through the open ceiling, i stare at the constellations that paint your eyes a brightness unmatched by the stars. i’ve never liked sunny days, so drench me in the complexity through which you see the world. i’ve never liked small talk, so kiss my mind with your rambles on ethics and morality. the downpour makes my clothes sticky with you: your voice, your likes and dislikes, your stories, your way of thinking. my soaked t-shirt and sweatpants cling to my limbs, your beautiful presence in my life seeping through my skin and spreading into my being an appreciation for everything you are
broken windows and shattered
glass: a crime scene deserted
until the red occupancy signal
clicked vacant. empty ever since, board up with
i had to make do
because i was afraid of moving
because i deleted the weather app predicting the hurricane
because i hoped the rain would pass
now even sweeping up the glass shards is too overwhelming.
i may have survived you, but my walls remain bound.
my splintered pieces remain scattered on the floor.
the hollow rooms remain quiet.
expiration dates are meant
for things like milkandeggs, written lazily on a crumpled yellow sticky note
folded and thrown in a purse too soon
the ink dragging between the letters
expiration dates are not meant
for things like love, things that are
not really thing-like at all
but you plastered a sell-by date onto my forehead
and kissed it too soon
the ink dripping, seeping darkness into my eyes