when you wake up too many hours too late,
i will have left with signs of
i don’t love you anymore.
my twenty-seven dollar red lipstick
will sit smudged on your jugular, like weapon.
your hair will reek of stale wine
and your hands will be curled beside you,
my hills and valleys still caved into them
from the half-conscious explorations of
just past 2 AM.
this is not about warmth. baby, this is not
about her perfume or your lights off policy
or your hands on my thigh before my lips
this is about my apologies
and how i nibble on their edges for breakfast
when there is nothing else in the pantry
because they have started to taste
this is about “fucking” makes your lip curl
but my legs go to sleep every night
like they should be ready for you,
with your fingers between my pink,
this is about cringe, baby, cringe.
this is about my spine itches with
yes please god
when i think of you reaching for my ankle,
reaching for a place to start your crawl
into the fleshy and gem-like of me with
the smell of my morning mouth as your
only gateway pass,
and finding nothing there
but the ashes of my last cigarette.
this is about there being no ashtray in sight.
this is about
i smoked that shit this morning,
It took me a second and
a half before I could even
reach halfway of my breath.
The first drop;
i am certain it was
achingly enduring from
throat to lungs.
The second drop;
it built a hole somewhere
in my ribs, destroying
my whole framework and
deluding all of my senses.
The third and the last drop;
the bittersweet taste started
building walls in my tongue,
air fused with blood burst
filling my mouth with too much
irony that i am doing
I fell on the floor
with mind screaming for help.
The sad taste vanished as
I embrace a long sleep, and it
took me a while before I could
even write about it.
Humans have a big cluster of dead keratin tendrils growing from our heads and we arrange them in different configurations and worry about whether other people find our keratin tendril arrangements aesthetically pleasing.