I’ve got your name stuck to the back of my teeth
and I taste it in everyone’s kisses.
I go looking for lovenotes you’re never going to give me.
Truth is, I fell backwards into your ice water romance,
and the last couple months have barely thawed my fingers out.
I like pretending I’ve washed my hands of you.
I say your name twenty times a day
and brag about how it doesn’t hurt me.
But if you called, I would crash my car
just to say it where you could hear me.
Truth is, I’ve got a lungful of apologies
that are all supposed to be yours to give.
I tell everyone I know to be brave
and stay away from the ones who hurt them,
but I am selfish and weak and insecure,
and I would take you back in an instant.
I am spitting out your name in the back of my bedroom.
I am six cups of coffees in, but that’s besides the point.
I am figuring out which parts of my personality are mine
and which ones I created to please you.
I am still holding onto some of the letters you wrote me.
I tell myself it’s to remember.
I tell myself it’s because I am afraid of forgetting
the early warning signs.
I tell myself I’m not sentimental.
I’m not sentimental.
I’m just afraid of throwing every burning thought
I have about you into the trash
and starting a wildfire.
Thinking about you takes effort now.
These days, if I want to bleed you out,
I have to grab a knife.
This is a form of self-abuse.
This is a form of reliving my youth.
This is a way to remember what it felt like to be near you.
As an artist you are going to get low and moody. It’s going to happen. So pack along some friends who get you, throw yourself at some weights or a good track, eat a bite of some good chocolate in the morning, and arrange for that one good perspective phone call with a Cool who reminds you you’re happier following your thing now than you were not following it then.
What’s your favorite kind of
disaster? What’s your favorite
color of bed sheet? What’s your
favorite way to count breaths?
I like to separate them into sighs
and desperate moans. Where’s
your favorite place on my body
to leave scratch marks? What
are your favorite words that are
spelt with the letters in the word
orgasm? Mine are ‘soar’ and
‘arms’. How many times have
you thought of me in bed when
I wasn’t there? Do you want to
use first names or just “baby”?
Do you want my mouth first
or my hands? Nails or teeth?
someone told me once that “blink blink” is cat for “I love you”
I’m sure this is total bullshit but i choose to believe it.
cats are hardcore man. instead of going, “i love you,” or whatever, they’re just like, “YOU ARE NEITHER MY ENEMY NOR MY PREY AND I THUS ALLOW YOU TO BE IN MY UNGUARDED PRESENCE.”
He leaves. You take a long shower, try to wash him out, between the fingers, your neck and your bottom lip, you watch it all spin down the drain. You step out, towel off, and for a moment, you think it’s all going to be okay, the worst of it is through. Then the sickening truth: He’s still there, everywhere, it still fucking hurts.