you’re always talking

and i never said a word unless i knew you’d fix me after with your tongue. your hair honey-brown, split ends. maple syrup in your coffee. your stupid friends and their back porch, the folding chairs sticky with cocktail syrup. you kissed him but stared at me while you did it, hands scrunching the front of his button-up.

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i cut my hair because

my forensic anthropology professor said our past is in our bodies. not in a metaphorical sense. if i go for a walk tonight and end up strangled on the side of the highway the scientists will find my skull, high bun attached to it. analyze the dna of hair strands: you’ll know where someone has set foot over the years. 

give back

all that macaroni and glitter- hide yourself in the box, in the corner. comfortable?

summer with moms

a loaded gun, a cocked question
who are you doing and when

sweet 16 (essays on copulation)

i

he came on the kitchen floor.

the lighting was all wrong. only thing i remember, afterwards, how he turned his head away and flared his nostrils and commented on the building burning down around us. i must’ve left the oven on. 

april 27

it’s not rhetorical, i’m asking, when you look into my eyes is anyone home?

a list of

things that would hurt you if i tried to explain them and i’m done with that. hurting you.

(alternatively: things you’ll never understand about me even if you tried. this may breed resentment.) 

summer before senior year

There are only two things to do in this town: bone or spend your dad’s money. Sometimes the two aren’t mutually exclusive. 

the verge

what counts is i am not a victor- i am losing
but i’m writing it all down, all the chasing, the confusion 
all the bruises and the ruins
she can’t love me, okay- moving
on means going faster
(i avoided a disaster)
and i’ll stay up all night 
writing lines to make it matter

Cafe Amore

*Gratuity included in price*

Aperitif

u up? (7)
A classic opener, devoid of taste. Lasts a minute or so. Purple socks.