texts pt. I


“Whatcha need, love?”

Snuggles and no stress and to be skinny, and I need kisses, lots of them, and you.

“Okay, I’ll come and bring as many of those things to you as I can.”

You’re too far away to do that.

“Right. I’ll just send you a million kisses then, one for every inch of your body.”

I don’t have a million inches of body, though.

“Overlap them. Go over your body again and again and again until you’re just layers of my kisses.”

A blanket made of your kisses.

“I love you.”

I love you.


Morpheus crawled into my bed last night,

and he braided my eyelashes together with glue and nightmares,

and when I finally escaped the monsters in my head,

I was blind and darkness surrounded me.

People can see the world in three dimensions,

but they only want to think in two.

We’re circles and squares drawn on lined paper,

never able to stand on our own.

I’m seen as a party girl, a girl who always laughs, a girl who only smiles.

A girl with a brain full of numbers,

a girl who only thinks in black and white.

And that’s exactly who I want them to see.

But I am more than my two dimensions.

I hear violins when I walk down the street,

and I sing in showers that are hot enough to turn my skin pink,

and sometimes, I scream myself to sleep.

How many others see the world through holes in a mask?

happy father’s day

I remember being a daddy’s girl.

Golden ringlets and yellow dresses, I was a miniature sunshine,

and I circled around you, the strongest man I knew.


I remember learning how to ride a bike.

Purple handles and a helmet painted with butterflies, I wanted to fly,

but instead, I fell and you kissed my scraped knees better.


I remember hearing the plates shatter against the wall.

Blue eyes squeezed tight shut and a rainbow blanket pulled over my head, I wanted to disappear,

and you crawled in my bed that night because you weren’t allowed in yours.


I remember spending weekend nights at your new apartment.

Bunked beds and a red couch, I felt like a stranger in your new life,

but we decorated the fake Christmas tree as if it were real and I pretended it was.


I remember Saturday morning brunch.

Eggs over easy and ketchup on my sleeve, I smiled at you even when I didn’t want to,

and you said we would always always always have our brunch, and I believed you.


I remember the ring spinning on her finger.

Tense muscles and a stomach full of lead, I cheered and laughed to hide my tears,

but you didn’t see me anymore to notice.


I remember the game you didn’t come to.

Red face and a blue jersey, I forced all my anger into that orange bouncing ball,

but when you called, I told you I didn’t mind and you ignored the lie.


I remember you asking us to be more like your new kids.

Black eyeshadow and music screaming in my ears, I ignored you,

and you yelled at me the entire drive to church because I wore my ripped jeans.


I remember that Christmas,

Blue arm cast and black tears, I became an atomic bomb of suppressed emotion,

and she told me to fuck off and you were as silent as a puppet with its strings cut.


I remember that Thanksgiving,

Icy November and icy betrayal, I was the child you wanted to erase,

and you had a new family for family vacations, one that wasn’t full of black holes like me.


I remember one Wednesday in the summer,

Desperate and swallowing my pride, I only needed a little bit more money,

but I’m a dumpster, not a new kitchen, so that would have just been a waste.


I remember how I slowly learned to hate,

Razor words and sharp smirks, I stopped being a sun and I became a hurricane,

and you have no one to blame but yourself.

hummingbird wings

When I was three, we went to a parade and the crowds were massive, and when I got scared I grabbed your leg and held on like my life depended on it.

But, that wasn’t your leg, and I didn’t realize that a stranger had comforted me more than you ever will until I looked up.

When I was eight, the dark of my bedroom suffocated me and shadows creeped against my floral wallpaper,

and I distracted myself from the sounds of a marriage falling apart by drawing mini crescent moons on my stomach with blood.

When I was eleven, you left. You chose your new family over your old one again and again and again until I finally began to build an armor heart against disappointment.

I hadn’t seen Mom for three days because she worked when I was awake and I felt too alone, so I ate two bags of chips and made myself vomit until I was as empty as my metal heart.

When I was fifteen, my grandmother breathed whiskey words into my soul and you stood there and let her, you encouraged her, you told me to get out or else or else or else.

So I left, and for the first time in my life, I discovered I had hummingbird wings attached to my spine, and I flew away.

But my armored heart and my heavy soul were too dense to let me walk on air, and I crash landed in the mediocre field of reality.

When I was eighteen, I learned that you can’t pick your family so you build a new one, but everything I touched turned to acid that disintegrated the brick walls I erected around my bones and the armor covering my heart and it destroyed me until I forgot my own name.

When I was nineteen, I was covered in titanium and I filled my empty heart with vodka and meaningless kisses and all I saw around me was rape and blank faces.

I forgot how it felt to let someone else hold my poisonous heart because all I remembered were the hands I once trusted that pushed a knife between my shoulder blades and threw me into a shredder.

When I was twenty, no one had ever gotten past my new armor and I was the Titanic, a ship that could never sink, but you were an iceberg.

You walked through my walls like you were made of air, and you saw the darkness so you lit a candle, and you found the three-year-old who was afraid of crowds in the back room, and you had a key to free her from the shackle around her neck.

I am still built out of brick and steel and fear, but my heart is full of gold and full of you.

You help me dust off my forgotten hummingbird wings and you teach me how to fly.

a death that makes you feel like living

You drag your fingers down my spine, over my sweat dampened skin,

and I shiver and sigh and breathe in the smell of you.

Coffee and rain and sex.

My lungs are full of dirt and water and my heart is covered in dust,

but you waltz in and make me new.

Your breath curls over my bare shoulder, hot and full of promises,

and my broken and stitched back together skin absorbs them all,

turning my blood into lava and scorching my nerve endings

until I feel nothing except for you.

I still can’t breathe, but now it’s because my lungs are a greenhouse

and flowers have planted themselves in the muddy remains of my past

and they grow and grow and grow

until vines are wrapped around my wrists.

If this is what love is, it still hurts, but, God,

it aches in the most amazing fucking way.

It’s Icarus, finally free, flying too close to the sun,

and cigarette smoke burning the back of your throat,

and vodka pooling like gasoline in your stomach

right before you swallow a match to set it aflame.

Love is getting pierced by a thorn on the stem of a rose that is covered in poison.

All of it will kill you,

but it’s a death that makes you feel like living.