oh god, it’s my fault:
these bad dreams haunting me in my
his lack of interest
from my desperation
to mean something.
he stands there, staring at me,
while I ask him, “where are you
“in my memories, with her and me
as things were always supposed to be.”
I can see you now,
standing on sea shells
while I walk on eggshells
to mend my broken speech.
where does the sadness originate,
if not from the callouses on my feet,
the blisters on my palms
from compulsive praying,
or the scar on my hip where I carved
a heart when I really wanted to
write your name?
I decide to direct my anger unto myself,
because I am afraid that if I let it loose,
it will become a hurricane
and you will remember that I am not
a gift to a droughted land,
but destruction that will leave you bare.
I stand here in my black underwear,
in front of the mirror,
though the steam from my scalding shower
blocks any trace of a reflection.
so I wipe the glass to see my own eyes
staring at me, red and sunken,
and I ask myself,
“where are you most happy?”
and I can almost feel my broken teeth
sink into my gums as you did me,
but I would much rather let
blood sit on my tongue
than another single tear.
it’s with you,
where I feel complete
like the earth is finally big enough to
because in your arms,
I can feel the ground underneath my
dependency is an addiction,
but so are suicidal ideations,
and I am so sick of lying in bed,
lying to myself that I’m better off dead.
and I know you won’t mind me
clinging to your ankles
like a prison weight,
because I know you aren’t here, anyways.
you’re in your happy place.