I wonder if you know yet that you’ll leave me. That you are a child playing with matches and I have a paper body. You will meet a girl with a softer voice and stronger arms and she will not have violent secrets or an affection for red wine or eyes that never stay dry. You will fall into her bed and I’ll go back to spending Friday nights with boys who never learn my last name. I have chased off every fool who has tried to sleep beside me. You think it’s romantic to fuck the girl who writes poems about you. You think I’ll understand your sadness because I live inside my own. But I will show up at your door at 2 am, wild-eyed and sleepless. and try and find some semblance of peace in your breastbone. and you will not let me in. You will tell me to go home.
What did it feel like, I wondered, to love someone that much? So much that you couldn’t even control yourself when they came close, as if you might just break free of whatever was holding you and throw yourself at them with enough force to easily overwhelm you both.
I remember my mother brushing my hair
out of my eyes and wiping my teardrops off
her tired hands and she called me sugarplum
and told me to remember that boys can’t break
you in half, stars burn out but the sky never
goes dark, and your chest will always be filled
with light even when it feels like you’re on fire
but last summer I was sucking on cherry
lollipops till my tongue turned red and kissing
your neck and now I’m biting my lip so hard that
I spit up blood and falling asleep in the shower
because it’s the only place you haven’t touched