whisper5547

You, primal with your hands feeding mice to snakes somewhere in Nebraska, sweaty and heavy on my sheets, your voice barely audible, asking me if I believe in God Emotionless, I follow satellites' orbits across your chest When I'm drunk, I forget you Skin full of salt and chlorine, I ingest you A palette balanced by red wine and memories of you dancing alone in a bar as it closes, laughing as we check the street signs to make sure I can leave my car overnight you feed me dinner, once a week like the snakes except we try not to kill things you pulled my hair in your sleep last night you apologized: your hands primal, your body limp

You were all pain and skin and broken bones that healed too fragile, one shattered femur too many, the deathlessness of an empty parking garage. My favorite part was your finger hooked through the skin on my cheek, dark red, pierced flesh, the way my face felt so small in your hands with your thumb pressed to my jawline. I've never seen anything so soft against my sheets, so soft against my thighs, so harsh with your hand in my hair. I still listen to your voicemails. I haven't washed my sheets.

This is the variance: The sound of your key turning sounds identical to the way you sigh in the middle of our conversations

I remember holding your hand and staring at the trees (paper lanterns swaying so much I went starry eyed) and I remember feeling like I couldn't be happier Blackout I remember vomiting into a trashcan and hoping I wasn't dying Blackout I remember crying How many times did you touch me? And when every face began to look familiar, I saw you deteriorate (Is this our only goal?) I know self destruction the way most people know themselves Self-actualization is not your cure (Still struggling at the bottom of the pyramid, you drown in a sea of dormant pain receptors)

I press the heel of my hand against my chin absentmindedly driving towards my own wasted potential and wishing that I knew more than my sister’s 17 year old friends but the truth is, I can barely comprehend the sensation of my own fingers against my cheek I took the sheets off my bed and maybe that’s one step closer to renewal but so far they’re still sprawled across my floor and my motivation is dripping off my furniture and this isn’t even like high school, this is high school without the energy, and I don’t dance and I barely write and my friends aren’t reckless anymore. I hate the way I sleep

your edges burn me and there are too many words lodged between my teeth acid boy, you’ve left marks on my skin (it is so easy for me to be invested) (it is so easy for you to walk away) this is the second poem and I’m tired of feeling you in my diaphragm at 2am summer tastes sour in the memory of your mouth and nineteen marks me incompetent: obstructed by my inaction, I glow too gentle to be wanted

I think your problem with me is that you want me to tiptoe on eggshells around you but I refuse to avoid breakage I'm too familiar with it and I'm not the kind of person that needs to be protected: Be honest and good and don't have walls and I will rewrite your definition of morality if you let me and I wont let you get away with your mistakes as long as you promise not to overlook mine- I will watch as you find reasons to become I know you've hit disaster but if you let it bloom in your mouth it won't stay trapped in your arteries I know what it feels like to be over and to be hopeless but I also know what it's like a year in the futur

you’re what helps me sleep at night, now you in your warm thoughts hands heart; the moons in your palms the moons in your palms, and i miss you most. (this is the first poem i’m writing for you) (and it's fucking hard to write) i’m a greasy keyboard and you are adventure text message subtlety too carefully crafted won’t hide the “i want you” in (your) (my) teeth thirty two moments of “you showed me so much. and i miss you. i cant wait for you to come home” left at the end of a voicemail after weeks of not hearing your voice, the times when my heartbeat meets my hairline, sixteen days, i

not moving from being too hungover won’t make me a better person and getting out of bed might not hurt as much as i think it will but last night’s bruises make me think “what are the chances you will create positivity, the blood rushing to the surface of your skin has yet to help anyone”