you spilled into my life and made a messy thing of my heart.
and i don't quite know how to forgive you,
because you ruined me
in an irrecoverable way.
i have another boy i'm supposed to be writing about now,
but he's not the one i keep finding fragments of, under my skin.
and, still, he's never held me like you did.
i don't think he can.
i don't know how to forgive.
S.
toe to tile
backbone to barren floor, frigid -
chills to clammy skin
a gravity that sinks deep into the gut
you are drawn to low things
fallen fruit and dirt between the cracks
down and damned,
already
and you are made from darkness
low voices clinging to cigarette stained walls,
you found comfort in your riven body being
far beneath brainwaves and scorching eyes
a safe haven in the fault lines that run
from the refrigerator to the stove
and in the smell of alcohol and Clorox mixed
all pulling you further in
the ones on foot can trample you, still
but you are a million cutting shards (broken)
this is why you chose the ground
flat-spined, invisible
down and damned,
already
S.
He was drunk and clinging to me in the way I hate but am flattered by,
whispering nothing consequential. Nothing he'd remember in the morning.
Being pulled away by jealous arms
that were never quick enough to stop a small-kiss or soft touch.
I couldn't stop the corners of my mouth from moving when he told me
in all his drunken glory that he likes me. He really likes me.
I hate - as I've always hated - when someone can make me
do something I don't mean to. Even smile.
It isn't fair because he's drunk and I'm sober enough
to know better than messy words and ear kisses.
Sober enough to not let it get to me,
but it does. He does.
(I hate this).
S.
