She liked his shoes
when he left the laces in her car.

She hates the soles now
as they walk him away.

ugh

I hate the way you breathe
when you're on top of me.
The way your teeth shake,
and you hiss between their gaps.
Brush them.
You smell like beer and weed.

I hate the way I get bored
when you resort to carnal pleasure
and call me and come over
and breathe that rancid breath
down my neck and across my hips.

I hate the way you smile at me,
and I smile back, as though
I actually enjoyed that.
In all honesty I did
when I closed my eyes.

I hate the way you voice it,
with petty moans and
whines of more, harder, deeper.
I hate how this is what we are.

Get out. Don't call me ever again.
Go fuck the other six, or seven.

Or better yet, why don't you go fuck yourself?

She is aware of the way things are, and still she hides the truth from herself.



Sometimes, late at night when the AC is giving her gooseflesh and she can't sleep, she reads all the text messages you sent her. Some of them make her smile. The rest pull at the corners of her zinfandel lips.



She wishes that you knew everything about her, like you think you do. She has her secrets, and she often lies to you. It's nothing bad. It's just something she doesn't know how to put into words. She can put it in writing, though. Somehow it works better when it rhymes and she can lie again and tell you it's easier to write about things you've never experienced.



The sad part is you believe her.



But you could be lying too.



She smiles at your pictures on her wall, and honestly does want you to be happy. So she inquires about your latest interests. Her name, where you met, if she smokes. That's always been a big deal. She does smoke. And it's the same brand you do.

She splashes in rain puddles, only after removing her shoes. They were too slippery anyway. She smiles to herself, doesn't watch the janitor staring from the overhang. She just hops, skips, and jumps to class.

She waits for the green light, fighting not to catch anyone's eye. The little white man flashes and she walks just outside the edge of the crosswalk. Does it make her feel dangerous? Or something closer to the surface?

She jumps off every curb like it's a leap of faith, and glances always at the man behind her while pretending to look at cars. Her music softens her smile, and she looks sad, but she's just thinking.

She talks to people at the bus stop, but they leave their headphones in and stare with the corners of their eyes. No one is nice anymore. No one expects kindness.

She'll leave the same song on repeat for a week and a half, until she knows every word and every chord, until she almost hates it.

She'll smile at everyone, and nod her head. She says thank you to anyone who holds a door, excuses herself from being in anyone's way, and always tells cashiers to have a good day. She's an open heart.

And she goes home alone every night to write about it.

sdfghjk

[wip]

She walks with a blind man,
her fingers his cane.
He smiles and kisses her
again and again.

But he'd kiss the next woman,
or the man or the child.
He can't see her

Scabs to Scar

There's a scab on her knee,
just like her heart.
She's said when she's broken
she's like a work of art:
From every angle there
is a new perspective,
a catacomb of reasoning,
the chosen elective.

She pokes at the wound
and it will bleed fresh.
But she knows underneath,
there is fresh, new flesh.

But she doesn't want feeling,
not for this cut.
He called her a cunt,
and he called her a slut.

She wants it to scar,
and never bleed again.
So she can move on,
without the need to pretend
that anything less is
more than acceptable
when she herself tries
to be something respectable.

So she picks at her wounds,
until they are scars with no nerves.
To lose feeling for that one
is what she deserves.

1.8 years

Over two years ago,
on a day in November,
she tripped and fell
straight into December.

Christmas did well,
bringing things that she wanted,
but New Year's brought trouble
and for solace she hunted.

She searched through the rubble
to find a safe haven.
She found it in words
and an artistic craving.

Jealous of birds
she raced through a year,
and then her anniversary
was almost too near.

Suddenly she was hungry
for more than a meal
and September brought something
with a lip-locked appeal.

Heartbroken, she'd sing
a song of the truth
and live out two years
as a troubled youth.

And now one hears
from her words hidden well,
that this child has a story
to sing, cry, and sell.

She'd given her glory,
stood tall like a martyr,
pushed back her shoulders,
and marched that much harder

To move the big boulders
blocking her every step.
Now with such freedom,
She doesn't struggle to forget.