I look

I look for you beneath my fingernails sometimes,

Seeing if somehow there’s anything left of you.

I search frantically,

Scraping and clawing beneath them.

I don’t know what I expect,

The only thing I ever find is blood.

In the bathtub the dead skin upon my fingertips bulges.

perfect

it’s not very poetic but you’re a dick.

i kept letting it slide because once you called me perfect

and i thought it was about something more

but it was about skin.

i’m just a boy made of bones.

my body was never of any value to anyone else,

holes in holes

i can’t imagine what it must have felt like

to think you couldn’t leave me.

i used your ribs as a cradle.

you tried not to cringe

when your bones creaked.

my little brother died

and you loved me enough to hold me

through the hurt. i…

i was stupid

i always thought it was strange how you let me keep twenty dollars worth of change,

as if that undid anything that you had done.

i loved you and you didn’t love me enough to admit you loved me

so you folded that wad of cash between…

a sip of seventeen

i think i’m drunk on seventeen.

the way we play beer pong

the way your hands grip my shoulders and

shake

when i can’t hit a solo cup.

you wanted me to come and

you wanted me to stay

and i try not to read too…

why can’t i forgive you

if you ever get tired of being unforgivable

i’ll forgive you.

i’ll wipe the vomit from your lips

with my bare fingertips

and i’ll tell you that it’s okay.

i’ll know you didn’t want to hurt me

and i’ll forgive you because

you won’t be hurting me anymore.

you won’t need to say sorry

because that part will be over.

we’ll be past all the apologies

we’ll be past this.

i won’t tell you what you did wrong.

i won’t scream or cry.

i’ll just tell you it’s okay,

even though it isn’t

because it’s been four years

and i still can’t figure out how to just

forgive you

when all you do is

forget me.

blank pictures and bedsheets

you send me blank pictures

of blankets, and i can’t help

but realize i’ve never slept

in your bed. i’ve only sat

uncomfortably on the couch

because your house didn’t feel

like home and that felt wrong

but i guess it was right.

sometimes i can’t stop myself

from wondering if she’s just out of

frame. she has to be. where else

would she sleep? she’s laying

next to you and you’re laying

next to her and i’m staring

at a blank photo wondering

why i don’t know what color

your bedsheets are.

just a drink

sometime i imagine my skin

slick with citrus.

a boy with frail wings

drinks just to drink.

lips pressed against mine,

cool and sweet,

thin tongue searching

the crevices of me

for nectar.

his skin is transparent,

ribs flexing,

heart pulsing

with little whirring lights.

it’s a simple thing.

he doesn’t speak

he only swallows,

iridescent wings shivering.

lips are locked together

but eyes are open,

swirling with something primal.

something that goes beyond

soft hips and pursed lips.

beyond the need to do something

of significance.

this isn’t for anyone else.

no seed will be planted,

and nothing will grow or die.

the only thing that matters

is that he’s thirsty

and i am something

to drink.

pretty boy

your skin is dark and i remember

the way your knee used to press against mine

in spanish class when the lights were off.

sometimes you appear out of the blue

just to speak to me and i’ve never

understood why. we were never close

enough to justify a random phone call

or a text. you flashed me your skin for a few

months and we kept joking until neither

of us were laughing. then you stopped.

you came to my house on new years

and i thought maybe that night

would be different but you slept on the futon

and flirted with my sister and it wasn’t.

here you are, taunting me, teasing me

and i feel like a string pulled taut.

if you don’t want to do this i’ll tell you what

i told the last pretty boy.

all you have to do is

stop.

boundaries

i have boundaries

sometimes i answer calls and sometimes

i feel the ring and it sinks like a weight

into the depths of my pocket.

you can’t just show up because sometimes

there isn’t any of me to see.

i need time to become myself again,

to cocoon within blankets and bathtubs

until i don’t like i’m suffocating anymore.

so please don’t surprise me with a phone call or a visit,

because i’ll say i’m sorry and i slept through the whole thing

when really i bit my lip and tapped my foot

hoping to god you’d leave before i collapsed.

Drew

just a guy writing some sad poetry

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