bulletproof, in black like a funeral

Thursday, April 30

I told you once of how my breath melted and dripped down my ribcage. You told me that wasn't possible and said I should stop stretching my words until they had no meaning. Unsurprisingly, my words were right and you were wrong. You turned my breath to icicles that stuck all over my vital organs and made my skin feel like the unexplored Arctic. When the lights shut off and anxiety swarmed like bees in the cracks between my bones, the friction snapped the ice apart and let it all melt down until it was bursting and waterfalling down my ribs. Your ice box soul slammed my velvet heart into a corner and melted me away. I promise you my breath was melting.

But now my breath is growing and sprouting in the early summer sun. I'll wear black because it makes me feel like sex and power and home and not because I want to disappear. I'll listen to all the songs I thought belonged to you until they're mine again and your breath, your eyes, your jaw are dead and gone. I'll reclaim them one by one and seek a voice that's full of sunshine and not radiation. 

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the daisies

Wednesday, April 15

I shut the light off and bathed in the dark. I let the black velvet water come to nearly the top of the tub until only my neck and head were left uncovered. The music that was playing embraced me like you never did, seeping down through the water and sliding across my skin. It was like an underwater cathedral in my darkened tub and my body was the altar, finally learning to praise itself again.

When the humidity finally loosened my cough, I coughed up the daisies you planted carelessly along my heart. They were bright and sick and smelt like lies. After all of this, I have learned something after all. Don't trust the daisies; they keep poison in pretty packages.

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it's only slaughter, we're only liars, it's only blood

Sunday, April 12

Standing in the center of concerts you realize how shottily put together the human body is. Clumsy feet, elbows that prod much too far outward, the inexhaustible scent of human sweat clinging to your clothes as the crowd ebbs and flows with the guitar pulses. I struggled against the shoulders pressing into my back and against my head, imagining my head popping like a grape in the center of the crowd. They'd find you absorbed into my brain matter.

Standing in the back of concerts you realize how much you miss the hair you've yet to touch; the hair you watched the wind explore and tug at.  You realize how wonderfully a gin and tonic would burn down your vocal chords that are already shot from shouting lyrics. You grab your best friend's hand and pull toward the fresh air like children pulling kites across fields the color of his hair and feel that infinite feeling creep into your toes again.

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Dolores on the Dotted Line

Tuesday, April 7

The bartender sat a swan glass full of peach schnapps in front of me and called me Lolita, though he had never read the book before. He knew enough to know I was one, he said. He knew enough to know that I knew nothing at all. With 23 years, jet black hair and a few broken hearts to my name he said I knew nothing at all. He said not to call anything intense unless it had to do with sex because nothing else should ever be that intense, unless it was fucking.

I sat with my friends beside me and pushed dried up tears into the deserts in my tear ducts and let men buy us shot after shot, knowing that as drunk as my body got, my brain would never follow. I'm not even crying over you anymore is the hard part; I'm crying for my horizon and how long it will take the sun to set. I'm crying for a San Francisco apartment with exposed brick and piano keys. I'm crying for a seemingly endless fall and a chance at a warm December.

I'm crying over losing my Lolita and wanting her gone.

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