there are whispers of your warmth
on my shoulder and neck
like welts from lust.

i tend to call it what it isn't.

i tried on shoes of every color.
the electric blue pleather pumps were
the most bruised.
so i tried them on for size.
of course, they fit.

it won't be long before you are at the bottom of the sea,
a seaweed tangled stone
feeding fish
algae.

i hope you are gone soon.

so i can take off all my wet clothes
and dry myself
beneath the lanterns of your heat stroke.

you are so mad now.

i am afraid of you.
i am so afraid of you.

i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.
when we don't find words fitting

what will you wear to our funeral?
how will you know what i'm called?

the open casket party
will give you dead people makeup
and embalming fluid
as party favors. they will come in large, green tote bags
resembling a leaf.

it used to be so easy
to let the words slide down.
sometimes,
the jagged ones nicked at our ankles.
(we still believed in the other, then)
we called them our babies and placed them in strollers
named them thor and mufasa.


tell me again not to ever speak to you.
tell me again so i can make sure
that i will leave
for once.

i cannot sit in your room of walls waiting for the cracks to finally fold.
i cannot sit any longer
carving our initials into my skin
as reflections of your voice-echoes.

i'm walking again through your doors.
and out and out and out.

i'm trying.
i'm still trying.