death by paper cut

small town suicidal art.' 19

we sat on the roof listening to the moon. on cold nights, he was easier to hear. blurring our sinuses with talk of hatred and how to put the bottle down. i wanted to tell her i loved her, deeply. madly. but i knew her mouth would be caught in her throat. some things are only spoken in silence.
   so instead i told her of the night i puked pills into my ma's flower bushes. rosie was the only person i could tell the things that were too hard to say.

and they say, ' baby, how can you love anyone else when you can't love yourself '
but do you know the night she came to my house with bloody thighs, and how we laughed until we cried? and how every night since then, i'm still trying to fight the weight of my teeth; my tongue stuck on something of unimportance.

i see rosie in a city, lampposts barely reaching us in the glare of inevitability. pink nightlights of the stars, and her hand reaching for my arm. her mouth tastes like cigarettes, and bordeaux. and there's nothing beautiful about this; just holy.
the way her skin is a hymn, and it keeps me warm on sinful nights. and we're older now. not seventeen and bandaging each others misery.

if i lose you the world will cease to breathe. the stars will devour me.