Year Fifteen, The Month of May

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.

Sometimes

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

“Mine.”

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

Junior Prom.