She stares out the window,
moonlight kissing her face like tiny silver butterflies,
diamonds in her eyes.
She wonders why the wind is so cold and why your gaze hurts so much,
looking at something no one can have.
Your lips produce words made out of limestone and sulfur,
breathing smoke into wildfires.
They’re in the next room listening,
telling her she’s wrong, they’re sorry,
just hang up the phone.
She’s laughing, they say.
Frost coats the ground, killing the flowers,
ice protruding from their stems.
Oceans recede forming deserts of nothing,
ships sailing farther from her shores.
There is a man with wild hair there,
building tiny girl storms with his bare marble hands.
She feels when you speak,
electric sparks peircing her bruised skies,
crying for the man who isn’t ever coming back.
Millions of tiny bugs creep around beneath her skin,
mud caked under fingernails from years of digging too deep,
vines covered in thorns tangling around her throat.
She remembers his hands on her thighs,
his lips aginst her neck,
butterflies in her stomach.
i won’t run again, she told herself,
never run away and never look back.
i will forget, you know.
i can’t remember your skin,
the smell of your hair like fallen leaves,
your crazy heartbeat,
my favorite things.
i have forgotten your voice,
the way you move your fingers like spiders,
how your entire body laughs.
When i closed my eyes,
you would be there like a ghost behind me,
your breath on my shoulder,
quiet little words in my ear.
You said we could stay in that city forever.
i didn’t need you, just sleep.
one thimble issue 17: big day out jacket
1 week ago