When grief comes, they say that you start eating the parts of yourself that hurt the most.
When you left, I started with my fingers and worked my way inwards until in gentle lights it looked like my organs were falling softly out of me
my mother came to see me two days after it happened but by then my fingernails were stubs and I’d begun gnawing at the corners of my lungs. She said that I looked ‘peaky’ and I laughed so hard that I coughed up the other lung.
We spent the evening drinking wine and cleaning pieces of myself from the floor. You said I’d be sorry for the ivory carpet and you were right, heartache is the worst sort of stain.
At night I miss you the most, so I chew on my knuckles until I can’t remember the way you held them against your face and even then there’s the ghost of how we slept together and the ways it fit.
I think that even the mattress feels the loss of you because at 3AM it sighs quietly and shakes. Either that or you’re haunting me, if you are I don’t mind, please come back, I’ll stop leaving the dishes in the sink, I’ll kiss your throat until there are marks. Please come back I’m empty without you and I’m beginning to lose the feeling in my limbs
You are the eighth shot of Southern Comfort
and the walk back to my dorm that
I don’t remember.
If I’m being honest, I miss being that reckless.
Your neck is a mural of lips
that belonged to women who never loved you
and I refuse to be one of them.
You are a hangover.
You are breakfast at 3 in the afternoon.
You make me sick and I love you.
I will not kiss your neck with
I will cover their lips with my own
and I will never be embarrassed
about throwing up in my own hair
that night I called you
and told you that you were the worst
miracle I’d ever known,
because I meant terrifying.
I meant perfect.
I meant please
don’t leave, I’m trying to make this a good thing,
and you knew.