Valentine

when you lifted your arm in bed last week and put it behind your head, she thought you were me and she wasn’t afraid. she is sweet now. she’s skin, skin, skin and pretty little poetic thoughts lighting up your iphone screen late at night. oh, she’s sweet. not in a candy way, sure, not artificial sweet, but sweet like rain, like chewing grass as a kid and throwing it up in the hallway at school. she’s sweet now. I’m not saying she’ll ever be bitter. even when she is ripping chunks out of you, shrinking you with her silence, trapping you in the hospital-bleached hallways of her x-ray eyes. she won’t taste like metal then. she’ll still be sweet but your tongue will be laying over there on the floor and your mouth is gaping and at least she isn’t smiling. really, man, I’m telling you. She is all neck and heart and she’ll make you fucking crazy. she bites her nails and her skin and leaves trails of blood snaking from your chest to the elastic of your boxers. she is too big, she won’t fit in the palm of your hand. she has no ponytail for you to pull her back by. she is not small enough to fit. she can’t touch you because she hasn’t detoxed from me yet. how does that make you feel? she thought I was out of her veins but she got cold sweats and shivers in your bed and maybe it was because you and your roommates refused to turn the heat on before december, but I think it was the little bits of me still hidden in her, waking up up up. "I quit smoking. I hope you’re fine"

I’m picturing us on rooftops in strange cities, with strange people, and us. Always us.

Can you imagine the world if we only saw souls and not bodies?