i write you a poem made of severed hands and the milk teeth i've been collecting since i was three. darling (because i can call you darling when we're alone and vulnerability is a heart still pulsing blood) how long has it been. three blue moons but you won't call back. i still keep your hair ties. i still keep the notes you wrote. i still keep you in a glass box and watch the salt of my tears crystallize over it.
i slave over you and i walk over the hairs i've torn out but don't ask me if they're yours or mine i don't know which is worse.
you, my forest lullaby. you, my carnal scream. i howl to the moon and when the moon howls back i still think of your too sharp incisors. sometimes when i'm lonely i wonder if the devil would be just as welcoming; would she have feral eyes and a rose petal mouth? i answer the question and am ashamed of it.
you made me like this; you tore out my innards and replaced it with your cigarette smoke and cheshire smile. tell me when you'll fix this. tell me when you'll fix us.
