thinking…

i peel the skin off of her lips and sink my teeth into the soft meat of her cheek.

i tear into her flesh and feel her blood drip down my chin like the juice of the first peach of summer.

i grind her bones into dust and stir the off-white powder into my morning coffee.

her eyes sit in a jar on my fireplace mantle,

always watching always sweet.

her fingers lay across my neck on a chain,

a whisper of a lovers embrace.

i bend her arms into the cradle of my waist,

draping her torso across my back like angel wings.

i pull her teeth and place them in a crown upon my head,

i bathe in her blood until my skin stains red.

i want her very essence absorbed into my being,

i have been searching for the divine in the collarbones of beautiful women

trying to catch a glimpse of God in the dips of hipbones and plushness of lips

sometimes i think i can see Him in their eyes, glinting soft and sweet in dim lights

i worship in the cathedral at the apex of their thighs

pull the fruit of knowledge from the inside of their mouths

with every sip, every bite, i crave more

a never-ending hunger, a longing to fill the abyss cradled in the pit of my stomach

i want to carve their names deep into the cavity of my chest, so that there is proof

so that when they open me up i no longer bleed with the blood of Christ but with the sweetness of life

and when i melt into the floor it will know i belong to no God

i live in a blue house with blue walls

my blue bed sits next to a blue window with blue curtains revealing a endless blue sky

my car is blue and so are my painted nails

and every morning i eat blueberries out of a blue bowl

i only wear blue clothing, from my hat down to my socks

my life is blue, blue, blue

but sometimes at night while i sit in my blue house, the yellow lights wash everything in a green sort of hue

when the lights are dim my world is black

black with a sparkling tapestry of stars, coming through the black window

and i am not so lonely, in the soft glow

for that blue is brilliant

a blue reflected in a million different hues, in a million different spots, a million miles away

i often wonder if my affinity for martyrdom is born out of love or stupidity.

i have an innate desire to throw myself in front of someone, anyone, if it meant they’d be saved,

even if i wasn’t.

the feeling is stronger with those i love,

but not unpresent in strangers.

do i want to die that badly?

or do i want the extent of my care to be known,

without having to say it aloud.

is my life worth so little?

or is it worth so much?

perhaps i can’t imagine living without a purpose.

or maybe the purpose i have found is not enough.

i must go out louder, brighter.

as if screaming my existence into the world

i want to map the mountains and valleys of your frame

and follow every path while sketching the lines.

i want to twist my rotten hands in your sprawling fields

and tear out the weeds.

i want to shovel mouthfuls of your river into my deteriorating body

and feel it pouring down my throat.

i want to plant a row of sycamore trees

and watch them grow from my painstaking care.

i want to lay in your sun

and burn from its heat.

i want to

i want to

it is difficult to say i want you closer when all i really want is to eat you whole.

maybe i will try to fold you into my rib cage and breathe you into my lungs.

have you travel through my bloodstream and implant yourself in my brain forever.

maybe then you will understand that you are all i want.

maybe then you will understand all that i can’t give you.

maybe then you will understand.

maybe then

my mothers love always burned,

like a wildfire in dry brush.

i am seven when her hands find me for the last time.

her nails dig into my shoulder, painted and filed neatly.

her fingertips, stained from peeling oranges for school lunches, leave divots like a brand.

those hands, that have also placed bandages on my knees, rain down like the wrath of god.

i couldn’t figure out what was so wrong about going to the living room wearing a blue nightgown to say goodnight.

she never told me.

now i am older and i understand,

but i wonder why my mother would rather leave imprints on my body than explain why men should not see a little girl in revealing clothing.

i know she meant well,

but i have not touched her in years.

i can’t recall the last time we hugged.

i can’t remember a time when i didn’t flinch away from her moving hands.

i am terrified that one day my luck will run out,

she sculpted my body from a lump of clay,

formed me between her palms, like a god.

with hours spent hunched over her workbench, i was made in her image.

she painted me slowly, gently, her prized possession, her little girl.

she placed me into the fire with warm and loving hands, her smile tinged in orange.

soon the heat became too much, with my body so full of invisible holes and cracks.

the next morning, as the sun rose through the window,

when she beheld what became of me, blown to pieces within the chamber,

she blamed me, never herself.

she did not believe it, because she made me perfect.

she swept my pieces into a bowl of water,

doomed to start again as someone new,

doomed to end in the same way over and over,

lord i fear that my mother despises insects

and i am a fly buzzing on the inside of the screen door.

she approaches silent and cold, swatter held high.

it cracks down like a whip on my back,

white-hot and relentless.

no matter how much i scream and weep she does not hear, she does not open the door, she brings down lighting strikes again and again and again

until i am just a speck on the floor.

lord i pray that you can hear me.

i am fond of my womanhood the way that i am fond of an old letter from my childhood best friend.

one that sits in a box in my closet collecting dust with the rest of my most precious memories only to be taken out once a year.

i am not the same little girl the letter speaks of, but the little girl is different too, and yet i mourn for what we once had together.

i can feel her when i pass a rain puddle, when i am surrounded by friends, when i hold a cup to my lips to hide a smile.

she is still with me no matter how hard i beat her back, no matter how hard i pull her into my arms and give her the comfort she didn’t have.

she weeps for me and i weep for her and she weeps for herself.

i am a warped likeness of everything you are and are not and could be.

i am your rage, your smile, your secrets.

i am all you want me to be tied with pretty bow wrapped around my neck.

i am false, moldable, a chameleon disguised in your colors.

i wish i was more

like you.

i am you, holding me while i cry, not knowing what to do or how to change me so i stop.

i am me, holding you, unable to get through, unable to relate, unable to love.

you will never see me the way i see myself, the way that i will never see you either.

we stand in a two-way mirror, lonely in the kitchen, staring at the ceiling above the bed.

all our thoughts guarded, locked up tight, thrashing like an animal in a cage

one day i will lay myself in the dirt by the creek behind my old house

and it will be the kindest thing i have ever done.

my mercy will extend its arms around me,

the wrath of living finally quieted.

the earth’s loving embrace will be the last thing i feel,

before the warmth of the sun bleaches my bones

and the toss and turn of the river bed wears me down to dust.

but for now i intertwine my own legs,

and hold myself close to my chest.

like a mother holds her unborn child,

i want to love him

but i do not think that i can.

he is so far from me,

even when we sit side by side

in the shade of the largest olive tree.

fig juice drips down our chins like ichor and

i wonder if he tastes the same thing that i do.

if he feels the same way i do.

if he could see himself through my eyes,

see his cheeks dimple when he smiles,

see the otherness rushing through his veins,

and know that he is loved anyway.

even if i cannot love him right.

even if i am too afraid to.

to love him is death.

to love him is life.

on some days

i wonder if it would be worth it to love him,

even if it meant he would never forgive me.

i love him.

i love him.

i love him,

and he never got to know.

i took that love to my grave,

but he will find me here.

when he finds me all will be forgotten

and i will embrace him with all i have and scream,

“i love you,

i love you,

i love you,”

and he will not turn away.

he will embrace me tighter

and say,

“i love you,

i love you,

i love you,