I don’t suppose I’ll ever remember
what it feels like to be touched
somewhere other than my body
by the pseudo-warmth
of your cherry lips.
But it’s my fault:
I unzipped my rib cage
and placed everything
from my liver to my lungs
into your limp hands.

Oh god, I am done hating you
because you are and will be
the one person I’ll have ever loved
so purely
because your eyes
fucked me every. single. time.
They were orange
and I wondered if you ate too many carrots
because I just, I know there has to be
some hidden violence in you
that took pleasure in breaking
innocent
fluorescent
bones.

Thank you for teaching me to feel everything
because I’ve learned that I am
constantly underwater.
(Did I ever leave the womb?)

Sometimes I imagine seeing you
sprawled out on the center of my street,
and I’d always place myself beside you
and whisper hello
and we’d both just know.
But that’s not how the world works.
I will never have the pleasure
of dying beside purity;
instead, your countless replacements
will tell me they love me
and I’ll always respond with
“I feel so alone”
and they will never understand.
I will spend the rest of my life
looking between blades of grass
and piecing together shards of glass
so that I might find
where you left my heart.