year sixteen the month of may
you shaved my calves in the bathtub
on saturday morning bodies slick and damp and
i think you smell like dust after rainfall
stained your soft cotton tee in mistakes-born blood
I wear this sweat to sleep to avoid daydreaming
kissed my nose you peeled off
skinned-knee pantyhose
sometimes i taste blood between threads after it’s already packed away
sometimes miles away i need two packs of cigarettes and a large bottle of drunk
sometimes i burn my hair in bleach and my arms in matches
i think both seeped too deep last night
sometimes your face hangs in the airport and the subway car and the soggy midnight cereal bowl
sometimes they ask me to describe you sentences snapshots worry stones kissed bruises
and all i think is “mine”
this wednesday is my parents anniversary
i remember calling them 17 times in the month of november
its may now i tear myself inside out to find tangled pieces of their words
sometimes i dont sleep to touch pale pink moons on your fingernails
sometimes in the shower you make me bleed out why i live and how i do not
sometimes in the shower i know that it is me
i can be my own hell because there is a devil inside my day dress
sometimes i am red bloated eyes touching you
howled for air spoke no one’s name cannot understand understanding
please bring me your blanket
my brain is twisted like hellish waves of contractions
underneath my skull i am shaking wrap it around me
rescue whatever girl is living inside of me
put her in my bed and call it “sometimes”
call it sometimes and call it ok
please just walk away now
sometimes i disappear to return to the home i know
but its over now
its ok now
its over im ok now