muscle memory drags me down onto my knees, mouth mechanically open like a good girl. my mind can erase your teary-eyed screams for a fucking blowjob, but my shoulders will never forget the blistering pain from a simple maybe later. so i fight the urge to argue and slouch to make myself small because you like obedient good girls. you like holding my chin a little too rough just to stop my trembling. you like pulling my hair a little too tight just to watch strands fall out oh so easily because you like small good girls. my body is whatever you want it to be because it learned a long time ago it'd rather be starving than bruised because no one can know and no one has to know. i needed to lose the weight anyway.

Fact: There is a cold wetness on my forehead.

Fact: The droplets on my glasses blurry my vision.

Fact: I used to love the nighttime.

Is it raining?

Maybe I’m seeing wrong. Maybe,

I’m not remembering

the weather prediction right. Maybe,

I’m too tired to think clearly.

You don’t have wet hair that clings your face

like mine does. You say I’m insane

for shivering and pulling my jacket tighter.

Maybe my mind is fooling me. Maybe,

I’m not drowing. Maybe,

I’m not gasping for air. No one else is.

You’re making things up.

It wasn’t that bad.

You don’t remember it right.

Why are you making things up?

Do I not remember it right?

The memories are hazy, but I felt

thunderstorms that flooded my bones and

swept away the oxygen. I felt

lightning that struck my hands paralyzed.

Or was that you? Holding my wrists down as you screamed

how much you wanted to hurt me.

But you stopped yourself, because you would be the bigger person.

I remember thanking you

for not hitting me.

Fact: It is raining.

time slips in the puddles of our late-night thoughts, and i stare in giddy disbelief at my hands holding the winning tickets to a seat at the orchestra of your mind. through the open ceiling, i stare at the constellations that paint your eyes a brightness unmatched by the stars. i’ve never liked sunny days, so drench me in the complexity through which you see the world. i’ve never liked small talk, so kiss my mind with your rambles on ethics and morality. the downpour makes my clothes sticky with you: your voice, your likes and dislikes, your stories, your way of thinking. my soaked t-shirt and sweatpants cling to my limbs, your beautiful presence in my life seeping through my skin and spreading into my being an appreciation for everything you are

broken windows and shattered

glass: a crime scene deserted

until the red occupancy signal

clicked vacant. empty ever since, board up with

flimsy panels

i had to make do

because i was afraid of moving

because i deleted the weather app predicting the hurricane

because i hoped the rain would pass

and now,

now even sweeping up the glass shards is too overwhelming.

i may have survived you, but my walls remain bound.

my splintered pieces remain scattered on the floor.

the hollow rooms remain quiet.

we used to blast indie pop in your hand-me-down car

at 5 am, mcdonald’s hot cakes in my lap

as i fed you

not enough maple syrup, you would say,

i’m too spoiled by the sweetness of your lips

i drive an extra 25 minutes to avoid the mcdonald’s on tulip street.

it’s silent in the car

expiration dates are meant

for things like milkandeggs, written lazily on a crumpled yellow sticky note

folded and thrown in a purse too soon

the ink dragging between the letters

expiration dates are not meant

for things like love, things that are

not really thing-like at all

but you plastered a sell-by date onto my forehead

and kissed it too soon

the ink dripping, seeping darkness into my eyes

sitting in a tub of

warm water tinted red

because once again

you smeared your sharp words

into the cuts you’d already made,

half-healed skin breaking open

once again

because you were angry and you needed

to take it out on me.

you were always

so angry.

it’s 10 pm and it’s raining and i’m getting coffee and

i miss you bringing breakfast to my house at 5 am.

i would get in the passenger’s seat,

and in between bites of pancakes

we would kiss, lips sticky with

young love and maple syrup