jesus etc

we drank your daddy’s beer, and you told me how heavy everything was, like jesus had lent you the cross, and as you carried it through town, mother mary wept, you lost your memory, from forgetting my face under the devil’s gaze, to loosing sight of the girl in the mirror, triple x baby, you’re a star, never lose sight of it.

break out another beer cause i wanna forget, not you, but the ace of hearts, sitting in the corner, cutting her eyes through our bodies, dimly lit, i think my art teacher would call it positive or negative space depending on perspective, or how her body adds to the composition.

sorry darling, is this light too bright? i gave up trying to convince you that i was the sun a while ago, now i'm positive that a body of light exists only underneath my best friend's skin when there are no lamps in the room.

nothing matters but giving another body your blood, telling your brother that he isn't a bad influence, screaming out of my car's broken window in the middle of the night, it's a good life and i'm going to burn it all up to fuel these engines.

when you realize that nothing's working, pick up your pieces and move on, proceed with caution but remember that your heart does beat for a reason and forgetting to breathe is natural enough.

this body feels like novacane, my tongue feels like sandpaper, and my eyes droop so far down it feels like i am melting, the ceiling flashes feel like abductions and the music that is playing makes my body feel great, the bass line opens up my vision and the way the keyboard sounds as my fingers pulse over and over, over and over.

i am using a pen i stole from a girl i thought i loved when i was only 14, i guess it was stellar to know that i didn't because i would need her later, that friend you keep like smoke over burned skin. the pen's color is green, envy i felt was green, and pablo neruda wrote in green a lot. he said it was his personal symbol for desire and hope in his poetry. for me, green is just the saturated color in coppola movies and stems on the bloodiest of red roses. because my eyes are brown, and a poem written in green is more likely to attach our lips than ones with similar words but muddled skin.

great, another letter.

choosing to spend this stretch of time writing you awful literature instead of studying about why my brain thinks you're a whirlpool and why i chose to be sucked up into you instead of another less paradoxical to who i am. now would be a great time to use those practical skills my mother always thought that she instilled into me, priding herself on a daughter meant to manage others and always herself. though i do understand where she comes from, i have said in previous letters, that there is another part of this body, this brain so separated into tiny parts, that is an opposite. an outlier if we're being technical.

but do outliers really exist? do you really exist?

are rule breakers really different from all the others? there are probably thousands more who share the same fire, but you lit your match against your teeth.

and maybe last night’s whiskey stains, the illuminated white glow of your kitchen’s saturated, flickering lights told me something about you that even your father didn't know. i sat in silence when you fell asleep and dreamt of jesus walking on water and how odd it was for feeling at home in the sea.

the ocean, the waves, i always jump in head first because i love the feeling of being the first, the brave. its the feeling of my lungs caving in from the cold and my chest caving into me. i don’t care about the seaweed tying my ankles together or the feeling of my feet searching for the bottom. i’d pile buckets of sand on my chest just to sink and see black for a minute then come back to white again.

when i was younger, i was afraid. i would not confront, be free or sing along when the radio played. i hated my body (though some things never change) and how much i wanted to stay inside and hide from anything with a name and a face. so if you were looking for an answer as to why i need to be brave, don’t ask me a question or look at my face, take a look at my arms and tell me what you see. a girl unraveled, missing. a girl with secrets written only where she bleeds.

you can see them when the end is close, but only just enough. i have a reputation to keep up and i don’t intend to burst just because of a touch.

i love it when your mouth is rough, when you're fucked up, when the time is right, twist that knife, deeper and deeper and stop only when i say so, and when i say so, don't fuck it up.

whenever i hear it, your breath plays upon my neck and i see my first kiss, holding a girl's hips and driving to your house after school to make out and make up stories as to why we were into each other.

its a slow and seductive tune, too sweet, you'll get cavities from the beat alone. and i feel the same way whenever it plays, quick palpitations inside my wrist (feel me right now, now i am alive), sweaty palms, (you can hold them, but they're gross alright?) short breaths of hot air, (i can't breathe, but we both don't care) and the sharp sound of teeth mashing together (we never minded the sound, all i could really give you was a stare).

the song ends and i make it begin again, but i know that who we were then and who we are now don't need each other anymore, at least in that way.

i spilled a love for you two years ago, to myself on a piece of notebook paper with green lines instead of the usual blue

blue, blue is typical. everyone’s favorite color is blue, the sky is blue, my mother’s eyes are blue  and you my dear  were green