There are so many things that are unfair.
Such a baby’s word,
but I mean it, tongue out
Nothing can prepare you
for the hot pink claw marks that will be your stomach.
that will be your face. Your lopsided tits.
that no longer exists.
How do you explain
to your little sister, newly graduated and
the greenest green, that sometimes
the only thing that gets you out of bed
is the image of your own throat
A necklace of dark black blood pouring
down your chest, spurting up
and hitting the ceiling,
your boyfriend’s worried face.
How do you tell someone
that you cope
by imagining a bone saw crunching
it’s way through your limbs, that the ooey gooey
stretch and pull
of your flesh separating from the muscle,
all of that yellow fat, can keep a smile
on your face like a handful of pills might?
A dismemberment plan
for your depression. A drain
circled by imaginary guts
and often, very real blood.
A skeleton of dust,
your breath held forever,
on the back of your own head
and all of those teeth flashing, aching, wanting to be smashed.
An exposed nerve.
And a finger, digging in.
With you, intimacy colours my voice.
even ‘hello’ sounds like ‘come here’.
Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.
I remember your collarbone, forming the tiniest
satellite dish in the universe, your smile
as the place where parallel lines inevitably crossed.
Now dinosaurs freeze to death on your shoulder.
I remember your eyes: fifty attack dogs on a single leash,
how I once held the soft audience of your hand.
I’ve been ignored by prettier women than you,
but none who carried the heavy pitchers of silence
so far, without spilling a drop.
The only stupid thing about words is the spelling of them.