Poets should never make ghost children.I whisper cheap metaphors into your needy ears until, like funeral flowers, they rest upon the atlas of your mind. You with your napkin love letters and cloudy storm eyesare the only one to ever make my scaled spine quiver. But, my veins ache from consuming too much ink. I am gagging on black blood as it spills from your fingertips to rest upon my lips. You asked me once if I could read the words carved into my limbs like prophecies of you and I we were written in the universe of freckles dotting my thighs. I tried to plot constellations along this neurotic cadaver skin and only managed to contradict you.
no one warned the little girls oneno one warned the little girlssometimes, they will not beenough. sometimes, they will want to fallinto the spaces between words like knives, because wordscutlike broken mirror glassand the spaces in between are just white and blank,numb like hospital beds and small round pillsand you can float in them for a while, a coma of nothingbecause sometimes nothing will have to beenough.no one warned the little girlssometimes, the lucky oneis not the one with diamonds and rubiestumbling from her flower lips.the sister who spits bugs and snakesdoesn't have to live with them inside herselfanymore.she can speak their nameand set them free.no one warned the little girlssometimes, they will love someone elsein swishing skirtswith braided hairyou never know how many monsterslurk in the spaces underneath our skinuntil you walk hand in handwith anotherlittle girl.no one warned the little girlssometimes, they will love someone elsewith an easy s