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Description
You probably didn't notice the bottle of anti-depressants on the dresser beside my bed where you fucked me. I guess I can’t really call it rape if you said, “Spread your legs a bit more, babe” and I listened. It was hard for you to hold me after that; I was shivering and shaking and crumbling into pieces, and you know, it’s hard to hold a body that’s just pieces. You can fuck my body, but that doesn't mean shit— it’s hard to hold a body when the hands are silently catching stardust in a daydream.

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I had a dream that I crashed my car on my way to your house. Losing blood wasn't even what was important about it. What mattered was that I had repressed emotions that needed an escape route. I heard an ambulance in the distance, but I was just fine. I limped the rest of the way to your house and left a trail of blood in the snow.

Had to let you know that the suicidal thoughts do not glitter; they’re not shards of glass that you feel pressing into your skin. They’re not bright like headlights gleaming in your face while you’re sinking in the passenger’s seat, drowning in the idle talk dripping from the driver’s mouth. Surprisingly, they’re not wet like tears or blood; they’re dried up, and what’s been drained from me has no colour. My thoughts are colourless—they don’t shine.

Mental car crashes: a train dragging across a track of rocks and glass, but the pain is merely in your head.

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Pricked you with a fork and looked for your soul’s escape route, but you didn't fall out; you stayed in your body, and instead I was the bleeding mess on the floor. It was my bedroom floor mess, you called it. I left the vomit exactly how it spilled out— the belly of an angel and her glittery muck. What a mess, you say, what a goddess. It was my brain spat out into physical reminders. It was the place where fingers pressed down on bruises, and you could hopscotch through a ghost town of old memories.

It’s supposed to only be reminder – a tugging string around the finger – but it’s cutting off the circulation. It’s supposed to just be a memory, tucked in completely except the head so it can breathe, but you are on all fours — no blushing and no skipping stones.

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Someone once told me that every ten years, your body is completely anew, like your cells have died and been replaced by new ones so you’re not the same hunk of matter you once were, but you’re somehow still you because you have your memories. If that’s true then I'm running out of time before I can give an honest account of what has happened to me.

The memories are like the fallen leaves that have been buried under the snow for months. The snow has melted, and my big, open backyard is covered in those crusty old leaves. The memories are stale bits of cereal. The memories are tape recordings with tampered audio.

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4 a.m. porch sitting, I am thinking about you. I am thinking about when I was passed out on the couch at that one party and you were putting your shoes on at the door. Your voice was the sound of my favourite record spinning while the fabric of the couch was fading from my touch. With my head fading out of our conversation, your voice was cracking in all the right spots, breaking me in all the right places. One day I'll see your face smiling in a fogged window from the outside, and it won't hurt the way it does right now.

I sit here, a hunk of matter— a fuzzy, breezy floaty block of skin that rolls off the shoulders. You can swim in this. You can swim in the distance in his eyes. You made that distance gallons of water to drown yourself in. Liquid kisses— the sex with the glittering orgasms— your touch was first neon and electric, then it was snowflakes landing on the skin, and now it’s just clouds in the sky.

Description
You probably didn't notice the bottle of anti-depressants on the dresser beside my bed where you fucked me. I guess I can’t really call it rape if you said, “Spread your legs a bit more, babe” and I listened. It was hard for you to hold me after that; I was shivering and shaking and crumbling into pieces, and you know, it’s hard to hold a body that’s just pieces. You can fuck my body, but that doesn't mean shit— it’s hard to hold a body when the hands are silently catching stardust in a daydream.

-

I had a dream that I crashed my car on my way to your house. Losing blood wasn't even what was important about it. What mattered was that I had repressed emotions that needed an escape route. I heard an ambulance in the distance, but I was just fine. I limped the rest of the way to your house and left a trail of blood in the snow.

Had to let you know that the suicidal thoughts do not glitter; they’re not shards of glass that you feel pressing into your skin. They’re not bright like headlights gleaming in your face while you’re sinking in the passenger’s seat, drowning in the idle talk dripping from the driver’s mouth. Surprisingly, they’re not wet like tears or blood; they’re dried up, and what’s been drained from me has no colour. My thoughts are colourless—they don’t shine.

Mental car crashes: a train dragging across a track of rocks and glass, but the pain is merely in your head.

-

Pricked you with a fork and looked for your soul’s escape route, but you didn't fall out; you stayed in your body, and instead I was the bleeding mess on the floor. It was my bedroom floor mess, you called it. I left the vomit exactly how it spilled out— the belly of an angel and her glittery muck. What a mess, you say, what a goddess. It was my brain spat out into physical reminders. It was the place where fingers pressed down on bruises, and you could hopscotch through a ghost town of old memories.

It’s supposed to only be reminder – a tugging string around the finger – but it’s cutting off the circulation. It’s supposed to just be a memory, tucked in completely except the head so it can breathe, but you are on all fours — no blushing and no skipping stones.

-

Someone once told me that every ten years, your body is completely anew, like your cells have died and been replaced by new ones so you’re not the same hunk of matter you once were, but you’re somehow still you because you have your memories. If that’s true then I'm running out of time before I can give an honest account of what has happened to me.

The memories are like the fallen leaves that have been buried under the snow for months. The snow has melted, and my big, open backyard is covered in those crusty old leaves. The memories are stale bits of cereal. The memories are tape recordings with tampered audio.

-

4 a.m. porch sitting, I am thinking about you. I am thinking about when I was passed out on the couch at that one party and you were putting your shoes on at the door. Your voice was the sound of my favourite record spinning while the fabric of the couch was fading from my touch. With my head fading out of our conversation, your voice was cracking in all the right spots, breaking me in all the right places. One day I'll see your face smiling in a fogged window from the outside, and it won't hurt the way it does right now.

I sit here, a hunk of matter— a fuzzy, breezy floaty block of skin that rolls off the shoulders. You can swim in this. You can swim in the distance in his eyes. You made that distance gallons of water to drown yourself in. Liquid kisses— the sex with the glittering orgasms— your touch was first neon and electric, then it was snowflakes landing on the skin, and now it’s just clouds in the sky.