tess

im tess and im 22.

ive got that horrid earth shattering anxiety and writing poetry helps me calm down sometimes and ive had this account for a while and i thought it might be interesting to post some shit here.

i smoke too many cigarettes and drink too much coffee and you’ll probably read that being romanticized in my work.

you might also notice a pattern of newports being mentioned, i wanna clarify that i smoke marlboros ;)

mmkay well that’s all i got i think.

if I could shed the overreaction and the impulsivity and the incessant need I would. god believe me i would.

i would prod my own fingers down past my rib cage and into my diaphragm and i would yank out the bloody rot.

i would gut myself. scrape the molten skin off and let it fall to the floor in mangled bits.

maybe one day I’ll reach for something that doesn’t bite. doesn’t maim.

maybe one day I’ll learn that being hollowed out doesn’t equate to being clean.

there’s mold in my bones older than time itself. the rot was there before even i was. or maybe i was here first.

sometimes i feel a thousand years old.

sometimes i feel 7 and desperate, reaching my sticky fingers out to hold things that aren’t mine.

there’s a creak in my knee and a pain in my spine that make it hard to breathe sometimes.

maybe one day I’ll learn.

i watch from a distance in fascination as you stuff your fingers into my mouth and lick the tears from my cheek.

depravity maybe.

there’s a bowl of green jello sitting between us on counter, the slow drip of the leaky kitchen sink, the soft hum of billy idol on the radio. and we’re laughing and theres no silverware and you’re scoop chunks of jello up with your hands and smearing it around my lips.

obsession.

you push my head forward against the wall and sit behind me with a needle. my hair is pinned up so sloppily i almost worry, but you just brush it to the side and jam the needle in my skin. ink bleeds deep and the lines blow. a crooked heart.

amateur.

a bad night and a bad storm. im laying naked on the edge of the couch, your hands on my thigh, a blade in your mouth. the slice hurts a bit and the blood on you tongue makes me lose my breath. and we’re there, tangled up and covered in red and it’s raining so hard.

reckless.

they always stare at us. can’t not touch eachother. can’t not kiss, lick, bite. making a scene. always making a scene. they’ll run us out one day.

isolated.

it’s sunny when you pull me down on the front step and tell me you think you’re too in love with me. too enamored. you call me a witch and then tackle me down in a swarm of spit and laughter.

careless.

I don’t even know who im looking at. are your fingers on me or are mine on you? is that your blood or mine? your spit or mine?

there’s one toothbrush in the bathroom. there are few clothes. there are few who understand. where am I if not in you and who am I if not you?

there’s something hollowed out of my body from a very long time ago.

a certain hunger replaced it. an obsessive and reckless hunger.

all my records have been cleaned and put back in their sleeves.

my sheets no longer smell like night terror sweat, they smell like cherry blossoms and vanilla. (you used to wear a perfume that scented similarly)

my coffee pot is tucked away in a corner, growing dust and while sometimes im exhausted still, i reach for a glass of water. (all the caffeine was bad for me you said)

my hands itch egregiously for a smoke. (i have two left in a crumpled pack by my bedside table that are for emergencies)

the energy drink cans that littered my car have all been cleared away and replaced with floor mats and soft seat covers. (I’m too messy i know)

the discarded whiskey bottles not longer crowd up your side of the bed. (there’s a sealed bottle kept under it in case you ever decide to come back)

my cuticles no longer bleed from picking and they’re no longer coated in chipped polish and dirt. (i get them cleaned and filed and painted pretty shades of red and pink)

i keep a grocery list on the fridge and i have a gym membership now.

my clothes are no longer as baggy or as ripped up.

i replaced my shoes last month for the first time in 4 years.

i wonder if you wonder how i am doing and i wonder if you have heard how well i am.

im glowing and i am healthy and i am focused.

(the illusion is there anyways)

but sometimes i sit on the porch in my old shoes and my old clothes and I pick the polish off my nails and i stare at that new bottle of whisky and i reach for the discarded pack of cigarettes.

i have one left in a crumpled pack by my bedside table that is for emergencies.

I’ll chain smoke the shaking hands down.

I’ll wonder forever what I could have done differently.

Nothing I think.

I did everything I could for everyone I could.

I’ll light another cigarette when your name is brought up at the tables I sit at.

I’ll still avoid the curious stares when they ask what happened to you.

because I don’t know.

you were flames and warmth and rich liquor and then you were gone.

I’ll pour another glass.

and I’ll tell you about the creak in my knee.

tell me how you thought you were loved and about how it almost cost you your life.

ill tell you about how i love things that hollow out my soul.

tell me about the worry in your throat.

ill tell you about the sadness in my spine.

tell me all about the horrible things you did to survive.

and ill tell you about all the horrible things i had done when i didn’t have to.

tell me what keeps you up at night

so I know who what im competing with.

tell me love, do you know blood like I do?

dig yourself down into the concave of my naval and feel where the worry grows and the sickness festers.

close your eyes and put your hands on my hips and hold the pain there.

sometimes i think im an amalgamation of solid throws and harsh whispers.

roll my name around on your tongue and tell me what you taste.

is it sweet like the slow pour of molasses on a cold day?

is it bitter like november peaches?

tell me how you want me and ill move myself to your liking, just dont ask around.

ive locked myself in the vines of poison people and i fear it made me poison as well.

ive never taken the time to clear the smoke from around my soul so forgive that you need to squint to see me.

forgive that i have to be cracked open to be known.

step over the guts on the floor sweetheart,

to the warm, foggy mornings and bustling traffic.

to the smell of spoiled milk and salted plastic.

crooked teeth and heavy glasses.

too big crust pants and chopped up tees.

digging deep into my skin, trying to uproot and feel the pieces of me that were rotted out and caked in mold.

wondering if anyone could smell the decay in my bone marrow.

wondering if I was oozing hurt and confusion from the fault lines of my body.

wishing I could cut out the difficulties. the anger. the need to argue. to be listened to. the pit in my stomach when she smiled at me.

yeah I bring myself back sometimes.

i shove my adult body into a child’s demeanor and want to die all over again.

i breathe slow and trace the outline of peeling paint with my eyes.

i don’t feel like looking at anything meaningful too closely.

I don’t feel like looking at you.

you stand there, hushed and shaking. leaned against the door frame with a bag at your feet and a Newport balanced tenderly between your lips.

i wonder what you’re thinking. why you’re going. who you’re going with. what is more important than the life we’ve built?

the rich smell of coffee paired with the sweet hazelnut cream you use. the scratchy hum of that old second hand bowie record i begged to buy you a new one of.

the soft scent of strawberry shampoo and orange lipgloss and the earthy bar soap you leave in the floor of the tub after you shower. i never said much about you not using the rack but it annoyed me to no end.

the ethereal glow of glitter and tears after a bad performance. the soft hiccup of your voice when you’re sick. the slow drop of drool when you’re asleep. the way you flick your tongue over your teeth when you finish your food.

the childish way your nose scrunches when you’re angry. the childish manner of the anger itself. the incessant and immature attitude.

the endearing way i could eat it out of you.

you’re still standing in the door frame and im still looking at the peeling paint.

and you’re going to leave tonight and stay with someone else for awhile.

the golden lisps of light flittering down, burning my sensitive eyes.

i swear i see the soft curl of your blond hair against the starched pillow.

sometimes i watch a leaf fall too closely and i picture those brown boots you liked so much.

they way they would cup your calf was sinful almost.

and sometimes im alone in a bar, at a table nestled in the corner behind the pool tables.

and sometimes it rains and streaks the window just right so that when headlights pass the drops glow bright.

and sometimes someone will light their cigarette too close and im brought back in between your smooth legs while you take a drag.

sometimes i wonder if this is grief or something else entirely.

maybe i was a little too in love.

maybe I wasn’t in love at all.

but it’s nice to hold onto a little to tightly.

the smell of mint from his teeth and the cool undertones of expensive aftershave.

the bite of winters air stowed off by the soft afghan and body heat.

grief tugs at my shoulder blades, body sagging against his. when the sun breaks over the horizon, saturating everything golden bronze, he will become cold again.

but for now I will let him turn over in my arms and nudge his warm breathe into my collar bone and i will run my hands through the tangled ink of hair and I will not speak.

he will slide his hot palm across my tummy and brush the scar near my ribs and he will kiss me softly.

and i will fall asleep warm and i will wake up cold.

and my shoulders will raise themselves up and i will not speak of the red elastic mark on his hip after he tugs his shorts off.

i will not speak of the low hum in the back of his throat when he pulls me by my hair.

i will not speak of his playful winks and hushed tones and promises that will not come.

and he will not speak of me when asked about the marks on his neck.

there’s something sacred about quiet moments hidden in the darkness only night can provide and there’s something grieving about the secrets curling in my lungs like smoke.

we won’t speak when day breaks.

the floorboard that gives a little as you step across it.

the crucifix above the creaking door.

the plush carpet in front of the fireplace.

the dim lighting and the orange glow.

your chipped nail polish grasping at the fibers, mouth open in a long sigh as you watch the flames dwindle into hot embers.

the frost on the window pane melting slowly as the air gets more dense.

i think about the way the pattern of the floor ingrains itself into my knee. the bad one doesn’t hurt as much anymore when you look like this right now.

the sloppy movements of your thighs against my skin.

the hard tug on my scalp. the slow bleed of redemption.

i think back to that carpet in front of the fireplace in that old house with the thin walls and peeling paint often.

the permanent stain of slick.

the bald spots in the fabric from your harsh grasp.

the smell of burning wood and the curl of smoke and you take a drag from that damned newport.

-more

and that’s it baby, just like that.

i think of that house sometimes.

and I tell you about violence.

summer was always fleeting anyways, warmth never lasts long. bitter cold seeps into the cracks in my bones.

when will I fall apart finally?

I think I learned to love from an animal and so I always brace for teeth.

or maybe I learned to love from hunters and so I always listen for gunshots.

it’s icy when you ask me about love.

am i lying to keep the peace or because i don’t like the truth?

what when it flitters from the wrong mouth and I have no excuse.

what when the molded decay of truth finally evades vision?

will i come out unscathed?

covering others sins by creating my own.

and you’ll feel as though you’ve done something terrible, like swallowed pills or hit someone with your car.

you’ll choke on the pleading you so desperately want to do but won’t allow. you’ll cough hard maybe, and cosmic sludge will creep up your throat and you threaten to spill space dust all over her clean jeans.

that’s what you get for staring at stars for too long.

she’ll light a cigarette and smile wolfishly at your trembling hands as she offers you a puff. you want to crawl into the glowing cherry end and have the embers melt your skin as she pulls you in.

and then she’ll put her hand on your leg and you’ll feel your soul convulse in a way it only does coming from your mothers womb and you’ll know an ache so deep you can’t put into words.

your too-sharp red fingernails fitted tightly in the hollow where my hip meets my thigh, drawing blood.

your knee perched in between mine, nudging the seam of my pants.

the scrape of your tongue on my neck, leaving the taste of the sickly sweet fruit you had for lunch layered across me.

i lay still and let you roam. let you cut. let you mark and nudge and I thought this made me okay.

I’ve always been a late sleeper but i woke up early that morning. your socked feet tangled in mine. the rise and fall of your bare chest. the drip of spit from your mouth to the pillow. the flutter of your eyelashes.

I thought i was okay.

i woke again later to the smell of toast, the sound of the knife on the cutting board. the smoke from a Newport wafting through the air. the drip from the coffee pot. the soft hum of david Bowie on the radio.

orange cream lip balm and newport smoke curling around you, cupping your skin.

the low lidded look when you were ready to leave.

the blond waves stuck to your skin with perspiration and oil from my hands.

the gasp when i tugged.

the way your fingers dug into my skin when i leaned over you.

the bloody crescents reminding me im here and that you feel good. you want more. you want me.

the thick heat in the air reminding me of you.

the sticky saturation of peach juice dribbling down your neck as you bite.

the soft moan of my name.

the tumble of tears down your shiny face.

the smell of coffee and toast and cigarettes and citrus.

the fleeting moment of your disappearance.