x.o. fever

live with this

(tw- suicide)

andy calls ex-sweetheart thelma lou

she picks up after five and a half rings

he shivers at the cold metal pressed to his temple

paired with the warmth of her genuine “how are things?”

andy shrugs off her post-girlfriend kindness

he didn’t dial thelma for kicks

“if you want me to be honest,” he says with a sigh,

“you broke a part of me that no one can fix.”

as thelma responds, andy sucks on the gun

that daddy keeps hid in the closet

he puts it back to his head as he remembers what happened

to the last kid that finally lost it.

“i’m sorry it hurts and i’m sorry it’s my fault

and i’m sorry for what it’s doing to you

but please understand, i can’t keep holding your hand”

pleads the poor innocent thelma lou.

andy disengages the safety at last

unable to stand a world without her kiss

whispering into the receiver, he takes his last breath

to say but three words: “live with this.”

and he pulls the trigger.

pile of bricks

i wish i’d died on that pile of bricks

i wish i’d fallen off that mountain of gravel

i wish they’d left me out there on a night much colder

so the chill would kill

and my corpse would be preserved

stiff but just as they left it

in the snow.

why couldn’t they have left me there to wither and die

i give full permission

just let it be known

for next time

why couldn’t they care just a little bit less

why couldn’t they hate me as much as they love me

i wish they’d left me there drunk high and sick

i wish they’d let me sleep forever

on that pile of bricks.

pile of ashes

i wish i’d found heaven on that pile of ashes

i wish i’d feel peace in the eternal night inside an urn

i wish they’d accept my baptism of fire instead of water

couldn’t that be close enough

to help me sneak by

through the ironic bars that comprise the pearly gates

so i can squeeze through

while saint peter is on a smoke break.

why couldn’t they have buried me seven feet down instead of six

the closer to hell, the closer to warmth

the colder i am, the more sick

why couldn’t they accept that this is for the best

why couldn’t they realize my self care is my death

i wish they’d get used to the smell of burnt matches

i wish they’d told me to live for me

before i was a pile of ashes.

pile of tears

i wish i was a voodoo doll made of flesh

i wish the needles in my chest would even pinprick yours

i wish you’d killed me to take this task off my hands

but if you want a job done right

you have to do it yourself

and if you want the final job done right

you have to cut yourself

why couldn’t you cry now like you’ll cry when i’m made of marble

medusa of suicide

will turn twenty years into a headstone

why couldn’t you bring me roses while my eyes aren’t sewn shut

why couldn’t you ask me to come back before six feet of dirt muffles your plea

i wish you’d say i love you while i can still hear

i wish you’d water the bouquets on my grave

with a pile of tears.

-x.o. fever

tuesday is indigo

indigo is the saddest color

so much so that we call sadness “feeling blue”

because feeling indigo would be nothing short of suicide

because feeling indigo would be much too strong of a sentiment

as a child i tried so hard to keep the crayon box in the same order that i found it

but inevitably i would take out too many at once

and forget the exact address of their cardboard homes

it was easy enough to marry the reds the oranges and the yellows

greens and blues and purples would likewise fall in line

eventually only indigo would be left

well-used but never in place

every midnight sky it rendered

resigning it to a new space

not quite blue

not quite purple

not quite alien enough to find sanctuary between black and white

tuesday is indigo

it wishes it were lavender

wednesday is violet

roses are rose

violets are violet

oranges are orange

some things just are what they are

like you are you

and i am me

and we were we

but now i’m just she

and you are all that’s left of me

that i ever liked

maybe there’s no difference between purple and violet

maybe it’s just the difference between torture and fois gras

maybe the difference is that your hands around my throat til i turn violet

sounds much less violent than strangulation til purple

don’t stop unless i’m seeing indigo

wednesday is violet

it wishes it were lavender

thursday is mauve

friday i’m in love has already been done

so thursday i’m in mauve will have to do

what color was mauve before it gathered dust

what track was i on before it gathered rust

grandmother mauve plays with sweet violet

seeing her own youth in sticky purple fingers

she prays the rosary that the darling babe

will never know the quiet grief of being in mauve on a random thursday

muted color cannot know beauty without knowing pain

but god she misses that gaudy foolish brightness

thursday is mauve

it wishes it were lavender

friday is periwinkle

drunk on pusillanimous canned cocktails

high on terrific stomachache

pale and pukey and periwinkle

all in good fun anyways

i think of you as i debate whether to drag my trash can next to my bed

when i huff peppermint and guzzle ginger

periwinkle forehead and mauve cheeks

am i too nauseous for you

are you too fevered for me

sickening myself to be your favorite color

but it’s not quite enough

i’m not quite enough

friday is periwinkle

it wishes it were lavender

saturday is lavender

your manager said “spring colors only, please”

masculine coworkers refuse anything but green

but benching two twenty five

biceps bursting out of the sides

you wore your heart

all lavender

on your sleeve

three weeks later you quit

ten hours weekly near criminal

and passed your work shirt on to me

i’m too pasty for periwinkle

too languid for lavender

but i wore it gladly to sleep

mauve nipples peek through thin cotton

as you pull the collar down on me

clavicle kisses

and gray flannel sheets

i lost it somewhere along the way

but i still smell your lavender shirt on my pillowcase

that i weep into til i’m indigo in the face

saturday is lavender

it wishes you were here to see

-x.o. fever

all worries!

like a mother with an adult child

or an owner with an outdoor cat

i worry sick about you

but can’t do anything about it

i can’t make ultimatums

i can’t withhold sex

i can’t say “please, just do this for us”

because the concept of us no longer exists

there will always be a gash in my chest shaped like your spine

hunched over while you sit on the edge of my bed

that silicone nor organ donors can fulfill

kill me or kiss me or keep stringing me along

i promise i won’t say anything

because you’re just so close

so goddamn close

and yet so far away

go ahead and slip through my fingers

while i watch you pull out of the driveway

a facade of safe while you’re in my gaze

but pull off my street

to kiss the girls and the boys who taste sweet

i can’t do a thing

except keep the light on

and tell you i love you

once the door is locked and bolted

-x.o. fever

i wish you thought i was ugly

i wish you thought i was ugly but worthy of your hand

instead of hot but not worth seeing

i wish you found me hard to look at but impossible to leave

i wish it was my love and not my cunt that keeps your calcified heart beating

i wish you thought i was ugly

i don’t want it

but i wish it

if it meant we were we

and you loved me for me

-x.o. fever

the white futon

two years ago

on this very day

as we sat on the white futon

in the corner of my bedroom

you tilted my chin up and kissed me

you asked me

with forever in your eyes

if i wanted to

like

be together

i could’ve cried as i said yes

but i replaced the former

with kissing you more.

two years later

on that very day

as i stare at the white futon

in the corner of my bedroom

i ask myself

with forever in my eyes

if this pain will end

if we’ll ever sit on it again

the white futon answers

by growing dust.

-x.o. fever

split the difference

i don’t get the difference

why can’t we split the difference?

talk the same

fuck the same

unashamed copulate

sing the same

kiss the same

lips taste like second dates

laugh the same

lay the same

clocking in two minutes late

share the same

kill time the same

no one comes home til eight

i feel the same

it could be the same

i don’t get the difference

why can’t you split the difference?

-x.o. fever

dine n dash

i don’t mean to dine and dash

i don’t mean to eat and run

but why would i stop when you pay the bill

why would i stop when you give me my fill

you know you aren’t the only willing one around

cause everyone loves a girl from downtown

but like i’ve told you time and time again

i only want one easy friend

i don’t mean to dine and dash

i don’t mean to eat and run

but i’m not the one who kisses my hair and says “i should get you home”

when all i want is one more second to call you my own

-x.o. fever

bad trip

maybe this has all been a bad trip

and one day i’ll notice that the perspective of the trees outside aren’t quite right

or that there’s a finger missing from my left hand

or the cigarettes that i’m smoking don’t actually exist

and then i’ll wake up from whatever this has been.

maybe this has all been a bad dream

and one day i’ll realize that the light switch doesn’t work

or it doesn’t hurt when i pinch myself

or the time on the clock is wildly different every time i look at it

and then i’ll wake up from whatever this has been.

maybe this has all been a long coma

and one day i’ll feel the prick of an iv pierce through the heavy sleep

or hear your voice call my name as a humble request to open my eyes

or feel your hand slip into mine

and then i’ll wake up from whatever this has been.

maybe this has all been a bad trip

and the saliva of your kiss

will one day rouse me from the salvia

that took you away

-x.o. fever

don’t be better, be bitter

don’t get it twisted

i’m not getting better

i’m just getting better at not being better

i love you so bad

i miss you so good

i wish i were dead

i wish you understood

whispering i miss you

to anyone and anything

my michelob can

and my green halo rings

a party you’d hate

and the hangover it brings

my much too small bed

and my new smoker’s cough

a lacy red bra

and how it’d get you off

my everyday necklace

and my books on the shelf

a thousand love poems

and their futile cries for help

i’m not getting better

but that won’t make me bitter

because no one likes a sour apple

and i still want you

to bite

into

me

-x.o. fever

murder me

kill me

stab me

cut me up into pieces

put my head in the freezer

then smash it with a hammer

blow my brains out

choke me until you can see the light leave my eyes

if there’s even any left

eat my flesh

cook me as rare as our love

barely touching the pan

beat me til i’m a five foot four inch bruise

saw me in half from crotch to scalp so i feel everything

slice me open

then watch me bleed out

open my ribs like the pages of my diary

all about you

hold my head underwater until the bubbles no longer brew

slit my throat

run me over

bury me alive

smash in my skull

finish the job

murder me

-x.o. fever

the kitchen light is on

the door is unlocked

there’s no tape on the knob

you can come back if you want

whenever you want

the dog is long dead

the cat doesn’t care

you can come back if you want

however you want

i’m the only one home

i’ve sworn to being alone

you can come back if you want

if it’s forever you want

-x.o. fever

i don’t know who’s going to die first: me or my vibrator

(tw- suicide)

self censoring because i know that i am no longer the name you groan into the crook of your arm at three in the morning. i no longer have sway, i am off putting and undesirable. molest. molest. molest. twist. twist. twist. i fall onto your knife. that’s on me, but why were you brandishing it in the first place? i can’t get off unless i’m high. every time i cum i cry. it’s not worth it. i think i could be the world’s first agnostic nun. i think i’ll climax with each arterial gush. suicide is the ultimate orgasm. death will eat me out as i fade away, shove his scythe in and out of me until i’m pregnant with angels. i know you go to hell if you kill yourself, but i’ll be burning with some amazing people. i’ll meet your heroes before you do. i’ll put in a good word.

ask me again. i promise this time i’ll say yes instead of be patient.

-x.o. fever

amazing [somewhere] sunset

the sun sets over somewhere, seattle.

we’ve never been, but we always wanted to go. after home. after pittsburgh. after philly.

where the skies are always gray and the asphalt is always at least a little damp.

home of grunge and last year’s halloween costumes and the cd i just happened to bring along on one of our first dates simply “because.”

we’ve never been, but we always wanted to make it home.

the sun sets over somewhere, ohio.

i’m feeling kind of sick again. you’re buying me a ginger ale again. you do that thing where you put your hand on the back of my hair, between me and the headrest again.

the orange and yellow hues of the deepening sky are so much easier to see in the maddeningly flat midwest. that’s at least something this place has going for it.

i swear to god we’ve driven past this gas station five times. that’s okay. that’s more time for us to scream our lungs out to the same five songs, or to the same song five times.

the sun sets over somewhere, west virginia.

i have very little makeup on. i’m wearing an andy griffith show tank top that i bought on impulse. we always wanted a little boy like opie.

you’re wearing more makeup than me. your five dollar t shirt clings to your body and i think you are so beautiful. you are, but the thinking part is important too i think.

we look out over fort boreman at the city we grew up in. shitty. drug-addled. but the sunset is just as pink here as it is in hawaii, or or niagara falls, or the grand canyon, or wherever else people think is good to put on a postcard. our best friend snaps a picture. it will be my laptop background for a while.

it’s getting dark out. we collectively decide that we should be getting on home. we might have sex later. i’ll cry a little bit when it’s time for you to go home, even though i’d see you tomorrow.

i wish i could tell her to hold her tears. there’s nothing to cry about yet.

somewhere

anywhere

every sunset you lied

about how you were going to kiss my thighs under those seattle skies

-x.o. fever

as i lay me down to sleep

dear god,

is that how you’re supposed to start a prayer? or does it just kind of start automatically once you cross yourself and put your hands together? they don’t really teach you these sorts of things. or maybe they do? i’m not sure. i’ve only been to church twice. sorry.

“dear god” doesn’t seem right, because it sounds a little too much like taking the lord’s name in vain. like, “dear god!” but i don’t mean it in that way. i mean it as in the start of a letter or something like that.

anyway, we haven’t talked in a while. i’m sorry that i only come to you when i need something. but isn’t that the whole point of prayer? maybe if you actually answered them, i would pray when i didn’t need something just to say thank you. i doubt you’ll even consider helping me out, and i get that. you have much bigger fish to fry than one of a bajillion heartbroken twenty year olds. but the worst you can do is nothing, right?

you’re probably wanting me to get to the point. you made me wordy and messy and easily distractible, so maybe that’s on you that i have a hard time spitting out what i want to say. i wonder how much time i have to talk your ear off until you have to move on to the next prayer. or maybe you’re like santa claus and you can hear all prayers all at once, just like he can see all children all at once and their wrongdoings and good deeds.

my grandpa once made a facebook post that said “god sat out the holocaust— do you really think he’s going to get you that new lexus?” and i laughed and laughed, but now i find myself begging for my dream car back, and it’s not so funny anymore.

that’s all i’m asking. i just want things to be how they used to be. i know i complained all the time but i was still so happy. it was the first time i could see more than a month in advance. it was the first time i saw a future for myself. it was the first time i was scared to die because i finally had something and someone to live for. i thank you for those nearly two years of happiness, but there is something so uniquely cruel about granting happiness only to take it away instead of just never allowing me happiness at all.

to clarify, i don’t want you to take the pain away, because to take the pain away would be to take the love away. don’t take away the tears. don’t take away the stabbing pain in my chest. don’t take away the crippling nausea. don’t take away the headaches. don’t take away the gut-wrenching dreams. don’t take away the suffering. remedy the cause, not the symptoms, and then the symptoms will melt away with it. as much as i can’t take the hurt, i couldn’t take ambivalence toward such a once in an eternity love even more.

i’m not special or important or remarkable. i probably deserve all this. but whatever this is supposed to teach me, i’ve learned my lesson a million times over, so you can bring things back to how they used to be now. i know i say this every time, but if you do me this one favor, i’ll consider believing in you. i say consider, because if you find it in your heart to help me, i’d find it hard to believe that you wouldn’t also find it in your heart to help others who need it so much more.

that being said.

please. i can’t take it much longer.

how are you supposed to end a prayer? oh right.

amen.

-x.o. fever

please (if you don’t mind)

(tw- suicide)

water my plants

call my parents

delete my search history

deliver my notes

make me look nice

spread the news quietly

take what you want

donate what you don’t

publish my work

distribute my savings

keep in mind my wishes

talk to me on halloween

burn my diary

smoke my weed

drink my vodka

pour one out

toast to my memory

use a good picture of me

visit me often

leave me flowers

make sure people cry

bury me where i grew up

tell him i love him

tell everyone i love them

tell everyone i’m sorry

if it’s not too much to ask

-x.o. fever

curtain call

(tw- mention of self harm)

the curtain will rise

my stomach will sink

stage fright i learned to swallow so long ago

will bubble and brew with the realization

that these lines were learned between us two

and now i must speak alone.

i will probably miss my cue

scanning the crowd in vain for you

every night

every scene

knowing there’s no one there to see me.

they say that all the world’s a stage

but i’m sick of being typecast as the lovesick maid

doomed to die of self-inflicted means

a cautionary tale of stitching one’s heart on their sleeve

when the final curtain falls

i’ll slit my wrists with the thorns on the roses you will never throw at my feet

the worst things in life most often smell sweet

i’ll give it my all every night and matinee

so maybe you’ll return for act two of my play

-x.o. fever