i. cold black coffee and earthquakes.
where is she bleeding? there is nothing breathing in her body, but something still trembles.
ii. chalk pills chased by bitterness. she stopped being delicate a long time ago. somewhere, in some hidden corner of her soul, something weeps.
it is water but not the kind that cleanses.
hungry tide. salt;
the kind that stings pink wounds.
in the aftermath of it all she is scavenging for parts. to what -
to what? her body, my body.
iii. heart here, lungs here: they are in all the right places and still something will not start. body full of junkyard scraps, hippocampus here - useless thing. she will not remember his eyes.
assemble in a fervor. this is not how things were meant to happen.
iv. bodies like glasses shattered. to leave it behind or
piece it together, pray it will be beautiful again. she does not believe in god but
tonight she asks something for a tomorrow.
heart spilling red wine, sloshing in the sea of itself. the sun will rise and
no one will know,
the rain will swallow the world whole;
unearth the feeling of summer from graveyard winter,
claw at mud for refuge in memories.
six feet underground, the tide hugs sun-washed skin