If I told you
How many times
I’ve sat alone
On the shower floor,
You’d cry too.
The sadness of the past is with me always.
For I must get back my soul from you; I am killing my flesh without it
We are whispering in his rented room,
sharing whiskey beneath
somebody else’s sheets, when he says,
I like it when you wear my shirts.
They make you look pure.
I laugh and take another swig
before getting up to use the bathroom.
There, bathed in holy yellow light,
I look at myself in the cracked mirror:
Little girl in an oversized shirt
with bare legs and a butchered tongue,
holding onto him to avoid coming undone.
I should leave, I think.
I should go home, climb into bed, and
try to forget this entire thing.
But instead, I climb back into his chest,
shape my body into one of his limbs,
and say, Take out my mouth,
kiss me hard, pull my pants down
and I’ll moan how you like.
Give me a new name to wear,
a new face to study.
Help me out of this skin.
I so easily brand myself as yours
because I do not want to be mine.