You shaved my legs in the bathtub
On Saturday morning bodies slick and damp and
I think you smell like grass after rainfall.
I stain your soft cotton heart in mistakes-born blood you say you can only love me when I’m clean but.
Sometimes I taste my day dreams inside of you
Sometimes I can’t find you
Sometimes I need my sister’s stolen cigarettes and a large bottle of drunk
Sometimes I burn my hair in bleach and my skin in matches
I think both seeped too deep last night.
Your face hangs in the hospital hallways
The empty 6 bus the soggy midnight cereal bowl sometimes they ask me to describe you sentences snapshots genders kissed bruises and all I can think is
Sometimes I don’t sleep to touch pale pink moons on your fingernails
Sometimes in the shower you make me bleed out why I live and how I do not
Sometimes we run away to lose our virginities sometimes in the month of August your parents call me 17 times to fight to keep your’s sometimes it’s May now I tear my memory inside out to find any tangled pieces of my own.
It’s May now I leave
I decide in inpatient that you were right
I must be my own hell
Because there’s no devil living inside of you I have checked so many times.
Sometimes like these times I am read bloated eyes touching you through pay phone cords they don’t take quarters they take dignity
Sometimes I ask you
“Bring me your blanket
I am shaking wrap it around me.
Please take whatever it is living inside of me
Put her in my bed and call her ‘Sometimes’ and call her ‘Ok.’
Year fifteen, the month of May.
You take me with my
Sneakers with the shoelaces cut off
Golf pencils and the manifestos I wrote with no erasers
Drive me out of Katonah we still have