i can
put you in my
back pocket now.
you’re so small;
you fold so easily.
i can forget you
in there and run you
through the wash and
watch your face fade
because
you don’t mean anything to me
anymore.
Before you pride yourself on being so hard
for me get over, remember that you broke the heart of a girl
who: falls in love with
sticks and leaves, and keeps her favorites
in the backseat of her car.
cries at crimson sunsets.
tiptoes around insects on the
sidewalk.
feels too much and not enough.
sees beauty in everyone
but herself.
does not understand the concept of loving
halfheartedly.
jumps in puddles and digs
her toes in the mud.
lies in the middle of the street at night
just to feel her heart race.
was never taught how to
put herself first.
You broke the heart of a girl with emotions like
rain drops in a torrent,
an ingenuous heart that still hasn’t learned
that hardening is much safer.
A girl reckless enough to tear open
the stitches, to risk bleeding out
to love you.
You sawed through the tissues
that never had time to congeal.
You’re hard to get over because
I opened my wounds for you, and
every time I pick my scabs, they take
a little longer to heal; they leave
a deeper scar.
I’d shoot you up,
swallow you whole with
a glass of orange juice
in the morning—
inhale you
during my lunch breaks.
I thought that I needed you.
Now my sheets are drenched
in all the words you’ve ever said and
my eyes roll back to replay
your smile until it distorts
into a sneer.
And I can smell your sweat.
I can taste your lips.
I can taste the milk going sour.
You are leaking out of
the bullet holes—out of
all of my pores—but
I know this
is part of getting clean.
I washed the sheets four times (once
for every year you dreamt beside me)
before your smell
no longer lingered.
I deleted all of your
voice messages on my phone, but
they still replay
in my dreams some nights, and
I will always know your texts by heart.
I put all your clothes I gathered over the years, tangible
bits and pieces of you, into a garbage bag
and donated them, but
I still wake up on cold mornings wishing I had
that black jacket of yours.
I tore apart
every picture of us, and still
it took me too long to be able to
convince myself there was no missing
half in all those photos of just me.
I have flipped it so many times, and yet
I cannot get the imprint of
you out of my memory
foam mattress. The outline of your body
etched in chalk on a crime scene.
Silenticel 