green

Jealousy
wrecks
the best of me.
It bitters my skin
& shrivels my cells.
It wedges itself
inner shelves
it stores
in my pores
and pours
unfortunate
into important
pristine
places.
My insides
long for
innocent luster
now dulled by
oxidized greens
flattened esteem
and the
brick
of mean.

I am unclean

You make me wish I broke my bic

I wish I hadn't shaved my legs for you.
You don't deserve this
smooth.
You don't deserve hairless curves
that occur across these stems.

And you paw at my privates
in pointless
pathetic
pursuit,
missing my more
seductive
spaces.

These things are for earning
and you are a broke banker.

Try to embrace the soft places
where sun can't caress,
and maybe I'll let you have a glance
at my rest.

you only said it cuz you're drunk

He loves me,
he says.

He is drunk
with skunk
breath.

I love you.

He stumbles
and mumbles
vodka bubbles.

His timing is a sixth
sense,
but I don't want
inebriated gifts.
I want him and his.
I want his imperfects
and our skin to touch
when we sleep.

You're so good to me.

His gaze is glazed
cake.

And I'm an asshole,
he adds.

His confessions
swing
between us.
A boozed breeze
sings off key.

Do I forgive this?

that man ass hat
sits
lopsided
atop his head
and I dread that his
is his best
attempt.

last night and every other night

the things he left:

his cigarettes
(and sex between my legs)

his vodka glass
(a hand print on my ass)

a black cotton sock
(the rocks he got off)

torn kleenex
(a salty wet)

a messed bed
a spinning head
of use
and dread.

I wonder
if he'll want
them burned
or
returned

burnt

I want to be
this
other girl.

She has rounder
curls
&
softer
skin
with invisible
pores.

I hate
this chick
I'm stuck with.
Stiff luck.
A slow growth fuck
that eggs my
insides.

They're all so
pretty.
Mini
Painted
Perfect.
And worth it.

And I am
a wormhole
of worthless.
all hurtful internal
and
full
of burn holes.

Spoons

I am
not
a sex
object,

he says,

and asks
to spoon
instead.

my tears
ink
the darkness.

this one woman
sex sweatshop
learned
to paint
so his place
could have
pictures.

this sex
user
brought him
chocolate
because he
hates
Mondays.

she wrote
him notes
and dumb jokes.

and
held his hand
as he watched
his broken life
shatter.

I thought
we were sacred.

I am just
naked
silverware,
I guess
and that
I use him
for
sex.

now what

what was I here for
what was all the beer for
and why did you say you loved me
before you slammed the car
door?

what was all we had
before?

the shit
we shot
for hours
in shoddy bars.

the sweaty
sex
in Decembered
cars.

the late restaurant
nights
alone

the stupid
jokes.
Sharks.
And America.

I wish
I could take back
the
chocolate.
And
you'd
forget
what life tastes like
without me.