now, breathe

Me: I'm not emotionally sound enough to have a relationship. I'm sorry.

My body drips unholy things: Sweat, tears, sweet blackberry juice harvested from atwixt my thighs. 14 hours after communion, and I still taste the Blood. - My mother tells me heaven will feel better than my middle finger knuckle deep curved and beckoning And wet And dripping And watercolor splashed sheets reeking of blackberries. She tells me it will be Good. And I almost believe her. - It’s been three years since my dad cheated so bad my mother felt the need to apologize. I remember leaning over the staircase Whispering "divorce" in the palm of my hand. Then later shoving that same hand on either side of my skull in an attempt to dull out the sounds of my mother trying to keep a man who swore to always stay. How many fake moans fixes a marriage? Where were my earbuds? - We still live there. I still lie in that bed surrounded by those paper walls. I pinch my profane areolas, and wonder if they can hear this old bed creak. If they cringe from the sounds of me breaking the sanctity of marraige. I wonder if they can hear it if they can smell it: blackberries and sin. - Sometimes mid-stroke I envision a love of my own: They are dancing in the kitchen, and there is a blackberry pie, a soft sunlight halo, the feeling of coffee. They never leave and I love them for it. - I love them. I love them. I love them.