all i can ever make out 
is the silhouette of your chest

expanding out then in
to match the pattern of your breaths

that i have come to know so well,

just like the freckles on your back

that i’ve spent all my mornings counting

as if i were mapping constellations

and familiarizing myself with the terrain

of your muscle and bone.

i could never tell you that i’ve imagined

spending my life like this - being the 
cartographer of your body, 

charting your ocean eyes and your Sahara skin,

taking detours on the days where your

sky would crack open and you would

pour for days, relieving yourself 
of this terrible drought.

i’ve spent countless nights wandering

around your body, drunk off of your moonlight skin,

too drunk to notice that you were busy

folding into yourself 

on the days you should have been
folding yourself into me.

July 5th14

1 AM. the ceiling of my closet.
the safest place where i’d spend most nights
screaming to an invisible god
to take me away from this place.
darkness is a funny thing,
the way it makes you dizzy and
the way you used to make me feel
before our foundation turned to dust
now the only thing i know
as well as i once knew you
are the bruises on my legs
and the sharp edges i discovered
to make me feel something
other than this emptiness.

i’m still cracking open my skin
to find flowers in my veins
i think they are hiding somewhere
underneath the soil in my skin
all i can feel anymore is my chest collapsing
and my bones fucking shaking
at the thought of you being unhappy
anywhere but here
and god if i could tear off my skin
until i was nothing but bones
just to prove to you that i would
destroy myself just to restart with you
i would

May 25th23

the only place i ever felt i existed
was somewhere in the space between your mouth
and my bed sheets
there were days when i wanted to leave my phone at home
and walk until my head felt in place
and the city lights were nothing but tiny specks
like the freckles across your back
i remember your lips on my thighs
and all i wanted was to make you cum
and cry out for me
as if the desperation in your voice
would be enough to make me believe
that the thick spaces and fog between us 
are only temporary
and that someday time will have its way with us again

May 9th17

i spent too many nights
with my empty gaze counting the tiles
on my bathroom floor
i’m hearing my father’s voice again
and i swear i can still hear the door slamming
so loud that it could shake this house
for seven years
your absence is louder than any scream
could ever be
i still find myself feeling fragile
like when i was eight and too small
to see over the mustard colored counter top
where you pinned her multiple times
you found me in the closet almost every night
knees pulled to my chest
shutting the world away so that the only
sounds of comfort were my tiny breaths
reminding myself that it will always hurt
just to be alive

May 1st6

I never wanted to love you in quiet snow storms.
I wanted to love you with red lipstick stains, and sunburns.
I wanted to bruise your skull with my words and penetrate your skin
with my nails on your back.
You’ve always been a shy lover, so quiet that you forgot that
hands aren’t the only way to be affectionate.
I loved you so loudly that the sky cracked
and the clouds poured out and flooded my bedroom,
leaving me at your doorstep in the middle of the night
begging for you to let me in
and all I got in return
was the slam of a door 
and the sound of a lock.

Your ghost still lingers
on my pillow while I sleep.
You would wake me up at 2 am,
telling me you love me with your
fingertips on my face,
your eyes burning holes into my skin.
Darkness is such a good lover;
made from a foundation
that will always remain intact,
I think that’s why it’s still here,
and you aren’t.

I’m still peeling parts of you off of my skin.

I sleep in until the sun sets because

I see glimpses of you in the clouds.

I thought I could bleed you out,

but all I’ve done was convince myself that you’re

in my veins just as much as you are in my head.

I still wake up every morning
with holes the size of your fist throughout my body.
I still cry in the shower
and scrub my skin with such force,
as if to rid myself of the pieces you’ve left behind.
I cross streets without looking both ways, because you told me to take chances.
My body aches with the missing of you,
and my heart hangs heavy enough that not even the strongest person could ever lift it back up.
But you taught me what it feels like to drown when nobody else is home, and all you have is yourself to hold your heavy head above the water.
Your absence is essential to my living, and you taught me that no matter how much somebody takes from you, you can always somehow manage to be whole.

It was selfish of me to believe that I could build a home out of the atoms that make you.
No amount of makeshift poetry could portray how sorry I am
for tearing you apart limb by limb,
in hopes that you could put me back together.