There are mornings when I wake up wanting the coordinates of your bedroom tattooed on my skin because it is the only place at which I ever felt home, the only place from which my legs did not want to run, lashing out at you in my sleep. You never told me if I spoke to you, if I called out loud, if I ever scared you.
 These are the mornings I cannot survive without cigarettes, even though you hated the smell of smoke. I knew without asking that it made you remember the girl you tried the hardest to forget, the girl you mentioned when I asked why some nights you were looking though me when your hands were locked in my hair like I was only a windowpane. I knew without asking she was the girl who gave you ninety-mile eyes when you drank too much and played sad records.
 These are the mornings I am careless too close to rivers, stumbling along their sides like a deliberate drunk. I was far too feeble to push these words past my lips, but you were like a confluence in the desert. I wanted so badly to drown when we met and I wanted so badly to dry out when I stumbled across you again.
 These are the mornings when I inevitably think of him, of the first time you pressed my spine against metal and tried to swallow the part of me that was rotting my insides. I should have stayed, should have staggered a thousand miles home, should have locked myself away and cried into your shoulder, rather than set myself adrift in a snowbank. You live next to a graveyard and that might be how you fell in love with me.
 These are the mornings I paint my nails robins egg blue, drink an ocean of coffee, and cut my hair a way you’ve never seen it, making myself a girl you never knew. But I had only just begun unearthing you, like a buried city. Tell me secrets, I wanted to say, instead of excavating them carefully with bottles of whiskey and kisses. I was Atlantis, you were the Library at Alexandria, we were beautiful ruins.
 These are the mornings when I drift through my crowded city like a ghost, wondering if I still haunt you, if the sound of my footsteps echoes through your street, and on long Sunday afternoons, you catch yourself thinking I will walk through the door at any moment, shedding layers and layers, pressing cold skin against you. But it must be summer there and only on that last night did I ever burn hot enough to set fire to you.
Do you burn for me still? I’d rather not know.

There are mornings when I wake up wanting the coordinates of your bedroom tattooed on my skin because it is the only place at which I ever felt home, the only place from which my legs did not want to run, lashing out at you in my sleep. You never told me if I spoke to you, if I called out loud, if I ever scared you.


These are the mornings I cannot survive without cigarettes, even though you hated the smell of smoke. I knew without asking that it made you remember the girl you tried the hardest to forget, the girl you mentioned when I asked why some nights you were looking though me when your hands were locked in my hair like I was only a windowpane. I knew without asking she was the girl who gave you ninety-mile eyes when you drank too much and played sad records.


These are the mornings I am careless too close to rivers, stumbling along their sides like a deliberate drunk. I was far too feeble to push these words past my lips, but you were like a confluence in the desert. I wanted so badly to drown when we met and I wanted so badly to dry out when I stumbled across you again.


These are the mornings when I inevitably think of him, of the first time you pressed my spine against metal and tried to swallow the part of me that was rotting my insides. I should have stayed, should have staggered a thousand miles home, should have locked myself away and cried into your shoulder, rather than set myself adrift in a snowbank. You live next to a graveyard and that might be how you fell in love with me.


These are the mornings I paint my nails robins egg blue, drink an ocean of coffee, and cut my hair a way you’ve never seen it, making myself a girl you never knew. But I had only just begun unearthing you, like a buried city. Tell me secrets, I wanted to say, instead of excavating them carefully with bottles of whiskey and kisses. I was Atlantis, you were the Library at Alexandria, we were beautiful ruins.


These are the mornings when I drift through my crowded city like a ghost, wondering if I still haunt you, if the sound of my footsteps echoes through your street, and on long Sunday afternoons, you catch yourself thinking I will walk through the door at any moment, shedding layers and layers, pressing cold skin against you. But it must be summer there and only on that last night did I ever burn hot enough to set fire to you.

Do you burn for me still? I’d rather not know.

1 note

tvshowsgirl asked: I don't temember the last time I cried because of words. I don't remember the last time I sat in front of computer, completely still, with million thoughts in my head, and all of them were there because someone's writing moved me and inspired me so much. THANK YOU.

WHAT oh my goodness, this is the sweetest thing I’ve ever read. I can’t even believe this. Ugh, thank you so much, I totally needed to hear this. I hope you’re okay with me publishing this so I can stare at it and cry when I need inspiration. <3

1 note

We Are All Of Us Saved
The wind which had been howling across the mesas for days had just up and quit when he came for me. Barefoot and in faded blue jeans, he appeared out of nowhere and never explained how he found me. He was a prophet come in from the wilderness, our salvation, and quite possibly the devil himself. 
In a time when most of us would have believed in anything, when we were all just begging for something, some kind of savior, I had faith in nothing. I was spending long days in the desert, searching for aloe plans to vivisect and lay on my arms, which I had been habitually burning with a silver lighter for months. I did appreciate the irony of trying to cure my self-inflicted wounds, like the alcoholic who, in the haze of a hangover, reaches for ibuprophen to cure his pounding head and washes the pills down with vodka. But there in the desert, hunting knife in my hand, I met the Prophet. 
The man who would save us all.
Everyone always asks what he said to me that first day, whether it was profound and beautiful or enigmatic. I never told, which probably only lent power to the legend of that first day. They call his first words to me The First Testament and rumors as to the nature of his first words spread like they’d been caught in the vicious autumnal winds.
What he actually said was, “You’ve got plants on your arms.”
The second thing he ever said to me was, “Do you have any water?” 
This also would be the second-to-last thing he would ever say to me.
Later, I’d tell myself I was just dumbstruck by his presence in the poisoned desert. I never saw anyone out there, especially not in the heat of the day. I’d convince myself I was just surprised to see another human. But I’m not sure if that’s true—maybe I was already taken by his power, like they say I was. They call me Lady Disciple and The First Disciple and The Blessed Girl. They call me, altogether too often, The Girl Without Shoes.
Because the first thing I ever said to him, as I passed him the canteen of water I kept slung around my hips, was, “Do you want my shoes?” 
He was barefoot and I blurted it out before I could stop myself, worried rattlesnakes would find his ankles or he’d step carelessly on razor wire.
His laugh was easy and sweet, the laugh of a man who makes women fall in love with him in the cheap glow of neon bar lights. 
“No, no,” he refused. “You keep them.”
But I was insistent. “Please take them. You can’t just walk around out here completely barefoot. I’ll keep my socks. You take the shoes.”
After four more refusals and persuasions, he obliged, and pulled his feet into my hiking boots. For once in my life, I was not embarrassed of my abnormally large shoe size. This would be the only time I would see him wear shoes. The few times he rode in my truck, he smiled when I kicked off my sandals and drove barefoot.
“It helps me feel closer to the car,” I blushed.
He nodded because this, at least, he understood.
When I met him, it had been four years since the bombs, and babies had begun to be born what we took to calling The New Way—without tongues or eyes, just grasping hands and rattling breath. It had been six months since I’d seen a fish and eighteen since I’d heard a cricket, which I never would have thought I’d miss.
“You’re hungry?” I asked.
He was, I could tell. His ribs poked from beneath his dirty white tee shirt. But it was more than that: his eyes were starving. I saw the same look on my own face every morning in the mirror.
“Follow me,” I told him. 
And he, with what people would come to call his Infinite Wisdom or sometimes his Most Profound Knowledge, replied, “You’re taking me home.”
He was right. Of course I was.
-
Eli, he called himself, but only to me.
-
When I had fed him, when he had told me his named and asked mine, he told me what he was.
“I am a Prophet,” he said. He took a sip of water. “We Are All Of Us Saved.”
I tried not to laugh. Really, in all honesty, I was scared. I had let a crazy person into my home with only my knife in my back pocket for defense. I had given an insane man, a zealot take my shoes. And then I had fed him. I found myself wishing for my mother, who had been dead since the bombs. She had walked into the desert one day and never returned. My only family.
“What religion?” I asked, trying not to be snide and wondering how I was going to get a twenty-something man with a good-looking grin and perfectly crystalline blue eyes out of my home.
He shook his head. “No religion. Just Salvation.”
When he spoke, he had a way of making words sound like they were capitalized. It was a self-assured confidence, and maybe a bit of excitement. It surrounded him. It touched everything.
“That’s nice,” I said because I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I was wondering, I remembered, if I could let this fanatical side of him slide and still sleep with him, which I wanted very much to do. 
He grinned. “You don’t Believe,” he told me. “I would have been disappointed if you did, that easily.”
“You gonna convert me, mister?” I asked, suddenly not at all worried about my manners.
He nodded in the same assured and eager way. “I gave you my true name,” he said. “You will be my first disciple. You’ll see.”
“Look,” I replied, “I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t really have time for this. Could you maybe go? I’m… I’m not exactly interested.” 
It was the first time I’d lied to him but it certainly wouldn’t be the last. I would lie to him time and time again, from the first time we met to the last.
But he was unfazed. He got up from the rough-hewn kitchen table my father had made before he died in the war. 
“It’ll rain tonight,” he promised, “and then there will be a miracle. And you will be my disciple, and you will never tell anyone my true name. We Are All Of Us Saved.”
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It hadn’t rained for three months.
I sent him on his way.
________________________________________________________
Author&#8217;s note: this is the first bit of a 30-ish page short story. I would love any notes or critique on the longer work. If you&#8217;re interested, please message me. 

We Are All Of Us Saved

The wind which had been howling across the mesas for days had just up and quit when he came for me. Barefoot and in faded blue jeans, he appeared out of nowhere and never explained how he found me. He was a prophet come in from the wilderness, our salvation, and quite possibly the devil himself. 

In a time when most of us would have believed in anything, when we were all just begging for something, some kind of savior, I had faith in nothing. I was spending long days in the desert, searching for aloe plans to vivisect and lay on my arms, which I had been habitually burning with a silver lighter for months. I did appreciate the irony of trying to cure my self-inflicted wounds, like the alcoholic who, in the haze of a hangover, reaches for ibuprophen to cure his pounding head and washes the pills down with vodka. But there in the desert, hunting knife in my hand, I met the Prophet. 

The man who would save us all.

Everyone always asks what he said to me that first day, whether it was profound and beautiful or enigmatic. I never told, which probably only lent power to the legend of that first day. They call his first words to me The First Testament and rumors as to the nature of his first words spread like they’d been caught in the vicious autumnal winds.

What he actually said was, “You’ve got plants on your arms.”

The second thing he ever said to me was, “Do you have any water?” 

This also would be the second-to-last thing he would ever say to me.

Later, I’d tell myself I was just dumbstruck by his presence in the poisoned desert. I never saw anyone out there, especially not in the heat of the day. I’d convince myself I was just surprised to see another human. But I’m not sure if that’s true—maybe I was already taken by his power, like they say I was. They call me Lady Disciple and The First Disciple and The Blessed Girl. They call me, altogether too often, The Girl Without Shoes.

Because the first thing I ever said to him, as I passed him the canteen of water I kept slung around my hips, was, “Do you want my shoes?” 

He was barefoot and I blurted it out before I could stop myself, worried rattlesnakes would find his ankles or he’d step carelessly on razor wire.

His laugh was easy and sweet, the laugh of a man who makes women fall in love with him in the cheap glow of neon bar lights. 

“No, no,” he refused. “You keep them.”

But I was insistent. “Please take them. You can’t just walk around out here completely barefoot. I’ll keep my socks. You take the shoes.”

After four more refusals and persuasions, he obliged, and pulled his feet into my hiking boots. For once in my life, I was not embarrassed of my abnormally large shoe size. This would be the only time I would see him wear shoes. The few times he rode in my truck, he smiled when I kicked off my sandals and drove barefoot.

“It helps me feel closer to the car,” I blushed.

He nodded because this, at least, he understood.

When I met him, it had been four years since the bombs, and babies had begun to be born what we took to calling The New Way—without tongues or eyes, just grasping hands and rattling breath. It had been six months since I’d seen a fish and eighteen since I’d heard a cricket, which I never would have thought I’d miss.

“You’re hungry?” I asked.

He was, I could tell. His ribs poked from beneath his dirty white tee shirt. But it was more than that: his eyes were starving. I saw the same look on my own face every morning in the mirror.

“Follow me,” I told him. 

And he, with what people would come to call his Infinite Wisdom or sometimes his Most Profound Knowledge, replied, “You’re taking me home.”

He was right. Of course I was.

-

Eli, he called himself, but only to me.

-

When I had fed him, when he had told me his named and asked mine, he told me what he was.

“I am a Prophet,” he said. He took a sip of water. “We Are All Of Us Saved.”

I tried not to laugh. Really, in all honesty, I was scared. I had let a crazy person into my home with only my knife in my back pocket for defense. I had given an insane man, a zealot take my shoes. And then I had fed him. I found myself wishing for my mother, who had been dead since the bombs. She had walked into the desert one day and never returned. My only family.

“What religion?” I asked, trying not to be snide and wondering how I was going to get a twenty-something man with a good-looking grin and perfectly crystalline blue eyes out of my home.

He shook his head. “No religion. Just Salvation.”

When he spoke, he had a way of making words sound like they were capitalized. It was a self-assured confidence, and maybe a bit of excitement. It surrounded him. It touched everything.

“That’s nice,” I said because I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I was wondering, I remembered, if I could let this fanatical side of him slide and still sleep with him, which I wanted very much to do. 

He grinned. “You don’t Believe,” he told me. “I would have been disappointed if you did, that easily.”

“You gonna convert me, mister?” I asked, suddenly not at all worried about my manners.

He nodded in the same assured and eager way. “I gave you my true name,” he said. “You will be my first disciple. You’ll see.”

“Look,” I replied, “I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t really have time for this. Could you maybe go? I’m… I’m not exactly interested.” 

It was the first time I’d lied to him but it certainly wouldn’t be the last. I would lie to him time and time again, from the first time we met to the last.

But he was unfazed. He got up from the rough-hewn kitchen table my father had made before he died in the war. 

“It’ll rain tonight,” he promised, “and then there will be a miracle. And you will be my disciple, and you will never tell anyone my true name. We Are All Of Us Saved.”

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It hadn’t rained for three months.

I sent him on his way.

________________________________________________________

Author’s note: this is the first bit of a 30-ish page short story. I would love any notes or critique on the longer work. If you’re interested, please message me

4 notes

(Source: weheartit.com)

A Love Letter to a Boy with a Cold in Utah
Goddamn you for the way you held my hipbones.
All I wanted for years, literal years, was to feel the wind off of Lake Michigan blowing through my hair. But now I just want your skinny arms and king bed and your DVR full of serial killer shows. And on Sunday mornings when you are sick and I am hundreds of miles away, I want so badly to get in my father’s car and drive down to you, speeding through the s-turns like I haven’t got a care in the world. 
And goddamn you for being so perfect every night I spent with you, for letting your life seep into mine. For whispering about the car crash, for playing me your favorite songs, for tickling me when you got frustrated, for that last goodbye.
And goddamn you for long afternoons and Italian food and the way you bit my lips hard the first time. Goddamn you for soccer games and Christmas and calling me in the middle of the night and especially the way your fingers curled in mine, holding my hand while you kissed me. Goddamn, the way you kissed me.
I would let you get me sick. If, like you said, I hadn’t left. I would have let you hold my hipbones the exact way you always did.
There is a certain holiness with which men have learned to hold my hipbones, either like rosaries or handguns. Something to cling to in foxholes and sinking ships. But you’ve always been different, you let your veins tangle up with mine and ripped them away, again and again. And I’ve killed for less, fucking killed. But I got so used to the way you reopened my scabs, and I became so fond of bleeding out.
What was I thinking, to crave a boy I miss ten seconds after he’s pulled air from my lungs and run? But at least I know I’ll never love cigarettes at the same time as you. You are cancer enough, you make me spit out my own mortality in sharp bloody gasps when my lungs come loose.
I carved articles of sedition into your spine, I called from the bathroom floor at four o’clock in the morning, I begged for five more minutes and turn them into fifteen.
And goddamn you for not missing me until I left. And goddamn me for leaving. I burned every bridge I’ve ever crossed to come to you, and then I ran.
But I can’t get over the way you held my hipbones like they were exactly what they are: only tissue, only skin.

A Love Letter to a Boy with a Cold in Utah

Goddamn you for the way you held my hipbones.

All I wanted for years, literal years, was to feel the wind off of Lake Michigan blowing through my hair. But now I just want your skinny arms and king bed and your DVR full of serial killer shows. And on Sunday mornings when you are sick and I am hundreds of miles away, I want so badly to get in my father’s car and drive down to you, speeding through the s-turns like I haven’t got a care in the world. 

And goddamn you for being so perfect every night I spent with you, for letting your life seep into mine. For whispering about the car crash, for playing me your favorite songs, for tickling me when you got frustrated, for that last goodbye.

And goddamn you for long afternoons and Italian food and the way you bit my lips hard the first time. Goddamn you for soccer games and Christmas and calling me in the middle of the night and especially the way your fingers curled in mine, holding my hand while you kissed me. Goddamn, the way you kissed me.

I would let you get me sick. If, like you said, I hadn’t left. I would have let you hold my hipbones the exact way you always did.

There is a certain holiness with which men have learned to hold my hipbones, either like rosaries or handguns. Something to cling to in foxholes and sinking ships. But you’ve always been different, you let your veins tangle up with mine and ripped them away, again and again. And I’ve killed for less, fucking killed. But I got so used to the way you reopened my scabs, and I became so fond of bleeding out.

What was I thinking, to crave a boy I miss ten seconds after he’s pulled air from my lungs and run? But at least I know I’ll never love cigarettes at the same time as you. You are cancer enough, you make me spit out my own mortality in sharp bloody gasps when my lungs come loose.

I carved articles of sedition into your spine, I called from the bathroom floor at four o’clock in the morning, I begged for five more minutes and turn them into fifteen.

And goddamn you for not missing me until I left. And goddamn me for leaving. I burned every bridge I’ve ever crossed to come to you, and then I ran.

But I can’t get over the way you held my hipbones like they were exactly what they are: only tissue, only skin.

15 notes

Twenty Four Thoughts I Had Within Twenty Four Hours of Seeing You Again
(for carino, for everything)

1
I should have know a thing like this would happen.
2
I&#8217;ve spent months trying to believe you never existed, you never put your fingers on my spine, never pulled me closer in your sleep. I&#8217;ve spent months trying to keep the sweetness from your name, to choke on the taste dreams about you left in my mouth. I&#8217;ve spent months ignoring the fact that you still have a hold on my favorite necklace, my book of fairy tales, and a part of me I don&#8217;t admit exists.
3
You&#8217;re shorter than I remember and goddamn am I glad I wore heels today
4
Will there always be something about you, something in the way your voice almost cracks when you speak, something in the way your dark hair always looks like you just ran a nervous hand through it, something in the brown eyes you always wished were blue, something in the way I can still see my fingerprints on you?
5
I don&#8217;t know anymore whether I want the Empire State Building or to throw myself off it.
6
Do you remember the time we baked chocolate cake in my empty apartment at two in the morning, licking at each other&#8217;s fingers and giggling like a pair of teenagers?
7
Do you remember the night you fucked me under endless constellations and breathed into my hair that you&#8217;d never love anyone the way you loved me, and promised for the fifth time to leave your girlfriend for me? And then you stopped calling and moved in with her a week later?
8
I wonder how you two are doing, if you make her happy.
9
I would burn down this entire fucking city to draw you out of her apartment. I would burn down this entire gorgeous city to keep you warm. I would burn down this entire pointless planet just to be certain you died in the flames.
10
Once, you told me that you&#8217;d never been able to fall asleep with anyone the way you slept next to me and, at the time, I was fucking a boy with night terrors, a boy who forced me from him in his sleep, whose body didn&#8217;t know mine next to his in the darkest hours of the nights we spent together. But I told you I slept soundly and alone.
11
I was almost clear of you. I had almost scorched every bit of earth between you and I. I had almost laid waste to every street we ever walked down. I had almost racked every mirror in every house in which we&#8217;d ever caught our own reflections and smiled. And now I&#8217;m caught with a handful of salt and a thousand reasons to see you again.
12
Oh, fuck.
13
No one has ever felt this way, no one has ever known what to call the way you make breathing feel like a goddamn accomplishment. There aren&#8217;t words for this, but this is the reason language was invented. I could write pages trying to explain the way oceans of red wine and forests of cigarettes and an army of men couldn&#8217;t change the way my lungs are rendered useless every time I see you.
14
Everyone has felt this way; we didn&#8217;t invent heartbreak.
15
I should have turned and run the second you slipped your fingers between mine. I should have left you walking in the snow alone. I should have locked all my doors when you came knocking. I should have run into traffic when you walked me home that February morning. I should have drowned myself in the Atlantic Ocean when I left you. I should have known your name could only mean trouble when you first said it aloud.
16
I should have bared my teeth at you like the carnivore I was when you loved me and whispered, “Wanna get out of here?”
17
I bet you&#8217;d still beg me to bite your earlobes. I bet you&#8217;d still love me on my knees. I bet you&#8217;re thinking about it right now, thinking about the things I could do to you in a dark alley. I bet I could make you explain away my fingernail marks in your back. I bet I&#8217;d draw blood.
18
Every goddamn song is about you and I&#8217;m sick to death of all of them.
19
Why won&#8217;t you let me make you into a memory, a statue to visit in a museum of failed attempts at love or something close to it? Why can&#8217;t I just put you on a shelf, why can&#8217;t I trap you between the pages of everything I&#8217;ve written about you? Why do you do this to me?
20
I wanted so badly for us to be each other&#8217;s happiness, to fix something beautiful and broken beyond repair. I wanted so badly to be an island, a life raft. I wanted so badly to make myself a lighthouse. But what can you do when all you&#8217;ve been is waterlogged pages and dark corners?
21
I should have known not to fall in love with a hurricane, but what&#8217;s done is done.
22
There isn&#8217;t a thing about you left to love. You tore every sun-soaked memory from me. You kept me captive with loose knots I wasn&#8217;t brave enough to test. You are still spitting battery acid down my throat, turning me monster, rewriting basic history. I don&#8217;t want a thing to do with you.
23
You looked like a mess and a half, but all I wondered was if I could take better care of you, like I used to.
24

I&#8217;d thought that by tucking away your letters and wrapping myself in the arms of better men, I&#8217;d teach my body a way to forget you. I thought that by cutting my hair short and shedding every single cell you&#8217;ve ever touched, I become someone who didn&#8217;t know you. But I must have been born with you in my veins because I can still feel you coursing under my skin

Twenty Four Thoughts I Had Within Twenty Four Hours of Seeing You Again

(for carino, for everything)

1

I should have know a thing like this would happen.

2

I’ve spent months trying to believe you never existed, you never put your fingers on my spine, never pulled me closer in your sleep. I’ve spent months trying to keep the sweetness from your name, to choke on the taste dreams about you left in my mouth. I’ve spent months ignoring the fact that you still have a hold on my favorite necklace, my book of fairy tales, and a part of me I don’t admit exists.

3

You’re shorter than I remember and goddamn am I glad I wore heels today

4

Will there always be something about you, something in the way your voice almost cracks when you speak, something in the way your dark hair always looks like you just ran a nervous hand through it, something in the brown eyes you always wished were blue, something in the way I can still see my fingerprints on you?

5

I don’t know anymore whether I want the Empire State Building or to throw myself off it.

6

Do you remember the time we baked chocolate cake in my empty apartment at two in the morning, licking at each other’s fingers and giggling like a pair of teenagers?

7

Do you remember the night you fucked me under endless constellations and breathed into my hair that you’d never love anyone the way you loved me, and promised for the fifth time to leave your girlfriend for me? And then you stopped calling and moved in with her a week later?

8

I wonder how you two are doing, if you make her happy.

9

I would burn down this entire fucking city to draw you out of her apartment. I would burn down this entire gorgeous city to keep you warm. I would burn down this entire pointless planet just to be certain you died in the flames.

10

Once, you told me that you’d never been able to fall asleep with anyone the way you slept next to me and, at the time, I was fucking a boy with night terrors, a boy who forced me from him in his sleep, whose body didn’t know mine next to his in the darkest hours of the nights we spent together. But I told you I slept soundly and alone.

11

I was almost clear of you. I had almost scorched every bit of earth between you and I. I had almost laid waste to every street we ever walked down. I had almost racked every mirror in every house in which we’d ever caught our own reflections and smiled. And now I’m caught with a handful of salt and a thousand reasons to see you again.

12

Oh, fuck.

13

No one has ever felt this way, no one has ever known what to call the way you make breathing feel like a goddamn accomplishment. There aren’t words for this, but this is the reason language was invented. I could write pages trying to explain the way oceans of red wine and forests of cigarettes and an army of men couldn’t change the way my lungs are rendered useless every time I see you.

14

Everyone has felt this way; we didn’t invent heartbreak.

15

I should have turned and run the second you slipped your fingers between mine. I should have left you walking in the snow alone. I should have locked all my doors when you came knocking. I should have run into traffic when you walked me home that February morning. I should have drowned myself in the Atlantic Ocean when I left you. I should have known your name could only mean trouble when you first said it aloud.

16

I should have bared my teeth at you like the carnivore I was when you loved me and whispered, “Wanna get out of here?”

17

I bet you’d still beg me to bite your earlobes. I bet you’d still love me on my knees. I bet you’re thinking about it right now, thinking about the things I could do to you in a dark alley. I bet I could make you explain away my fingernail marks in your back. I bet I’d draw blood.

18

Every goddamn song is about you and I’m sick to death of all of them.

19

Why won’t you let me make you into a memory, a statue to visit in a museum of failed attempts at love or something close to it? Why can’t I just put you on a shelf, why can’t I trap you between the pages of everything I’ve written about you? Why do you do this to me?

20

I wanted so badly for us to be each other’s happiness, to fix something beautiful and broken beyond repair. I wanted so badly to be an island, a life raft. I wanted so badly to make myself a lighthouse. But what can you do when all you’ve been is waterlogged pages and dark corners?

21

I should have known not to fall in love with a hurricane, but what’s done is done.

22

There isn’t a thing about you left to love. You tore every sun-soaked memory from me. You kept me captive with loose knots I wasn’t brave enough to test. You are still spitting battery acid down my throat, turning me monster, rewriting basic history. I don’t want a thing to do with you.

23

You looked like a mess and a half, but all I wondered was if I could take better care of you, like I used to.

24

I’d thought that by tucking away your letters and wrapping myself in the arms of better men, I’d teach my body a way to forget you. I thought that by cutting my hair short and shedding every single cell you’ve ever touched, I become someone who didn’t know you. But I must have been born with you in my veins because I can still feel you coursing under my skin

2 notes

How to Fall Out of Love With Your Hometown
1.
Do not call him. Call your friends and family instead, pretending to be a telemarketer. Read from a script. Do not call him. Do not say his name aloud. Do not look at pictures of him with her. Do not ask your mutual friends how he is. And drink up, love, drink up.
Wake up sick. Wake up hung over on the floor of your studio apartment. Wake up alone and shaking and stumble to your open window. Do not stare too long at the skyline.
Belong to no one. Belong to everyone. Bite your tongue. Bite his ear; that’s his favorite. Just like that, love, just like that.
Wake up sick. Wake up hung over on the floor of your studio apartment. Wake up alone and shaking and stumble to your open window. Stare too long at the skyline. Point your moral compass south. Rip the magnets from both poles. Buy a plane ticket.

 2.
Do not call him from the hotel in Paris that you read about when you were eight. Read Nabokov and eat bonbons on the French Riviera with a man whose name you never knew, or else forgot. Take pictures. Keep the slides in a box in the garage, next to the ones of your parents in Spain. Remember the story of how they met. Remember how she smiled when she told you how he wished for her at the Trevi Fountain and proposed three days later. Remember how much they loved you?
Do not marry the racecar driver from Majorca when he asks.

3.
Do not call him upon your return from Paris. Admit yourself to the south ward of a mental institution in Baltimore or Ann Arbor. Rest, baby, sleep. Let them bleed him out of you with leaches and fevers and pills and electroshock therapy. Read Sylvia Plath (her poetry, not The Bell Jar). Carve the words, “Out of the ash/I rise with my red hair/And I eat men like air” into the wall of your room. Do not buy a box of hair dye. Do not dye your hair red.
Pretend that you are cured. Fuck an orderly in the closet the night before your release. Speak in tongues. Speak with your tongue pushed against your stark white teeth.

4.
Do not call him from a truck stop in South Texas. Slip across the border and into the horror of a cartel drug war. Buy a pair of cowboy boots and a bottle of mescal. Kiss a criminal or two. Pretend to get addicted. Read Cormac McCarthy by candlelight in someone else’s bedand a white nightgown. Learn to ride a horse bareback. Bend your legs like this, cariña, and squeeze when want to go faster.
Pretend to fall in love. Pretend you still can. Speak softly in Spanish. Do not think of all the times you whispered secrets he couldn’t understand into his ear because he liked it; it reminded him of being seventeen and drunk in Puerto Rico, when his father called him a man.

5.
Do not call him when you come home. Call this home. Change the sheets on the bed in your parents’ house that was once yours. Remember not to overload the washer because, if you do, it will leak. Find your old journal from middle school and laugh until you cry. Offer to do the grocery shopping for Thanksgiving. Do not buy the beauty magazine next to the checkout counter. Do not buy the chocolates next to the checkout counter. Drink the entire bottle of gin ten minutes after you leave the checkout counter. Excuse yourself halfway through your brother-in-law’s monologue about practicing medicine in Peruvian jungles. Throw up everything you’ve eaten. Do not look at yourself in the mirror. Do not look yourself in the eye. Don’t forget to serve vanilla ice cream with the pie, honey, because that’s how your father likes it.
Don’t let on, sweetheart.

6.
Do not call him when the weather turns. Make plans to leave. When the snow starts, stay. Read maps obsessively, planning your next escape. Let the people you used to know see your face, pale and shockingly beautiful, in the street. Let them talk because, darling, in this town, talk is the only thing cheaper than you.
Set fire to the city. Try to draw him out of her apartment building. Despair when nothing works. Fall to the ground and beg for answers from that empty sky.

7.
Do not call him the second you land in a new city with everything you own packed in three suitcases. Ignore your older brother when he asks if you’ll ever be happy in one place for too long. Ignore your voicemails and letters from your old friends. Sign a twelve-month lease. Learn to speak Arabic from a pretty-eyed girl in a hijab at a community center. Read the Koran and the King James Bible simultaneously. Smile at a baptism of a baby you don’t know in the old cathedral on the south side of town. Make a promise to God that you’ll start going to Mass more often. Follow through. Take night classes. Get a job in a law library and make friends with the public defendants. Buy yourself a new typewriter and start new stories. Forget to call your father on his birthday. Tell everyone that this is your natural hair color. Dream of running into him on the street years after you’ve forgotten how to do anything but love him.

8.
Do not call him. Fall in love with someone else. Do not tell him about the racecar driver from Majorca. Kiss him, baby, and don’t you stop until the sky cracks open and swallows you whole.

How to Fall Out of Love With Your Hometown

1.

Do not call him. Call your friends and family instead, pretending to be a telemarketer. Read from a script. Do not call him. Do not say his name aloud. Do not look at pictures of him with her. Do not ask your mutual friends how he is. And drink up, love, drink up.

Wake up sick. Wake up hung over on the floor of your studio apartment. Wake up alone and shaking and stumble to your open window. Do not stare too long at the skyline.

Belong to no one. Belong to everyone. Bite your tongue. Bite his ear; that’s his favorite. Just like that, love, just like that.

Wake up sick. Wake up hung over on the floor of your studio apartment. Wake up alone and shaking and stumble to your open window. Stare too long at the skyline. Point your moral compass south. Rip the magnets from both poles. Buy a plane ticket.

 2.

Do not call him from the hotel in Paris that you read about when you were eight. Read Nabokov and eat bonbons on the French Riviera with a man whose name you never knew, or else forgot. Take pictures. Keep the slides in a box in the garage, next to the ones of your parents in Spain. Remember the story of how they met. Remember how she smiled when she told you how he wished for her at the Trevi Fountain and proposed three days later. Remember how much they loved you?

Do not marry the racecar driver from Majorca when he asks.

3.

Do not call him upon your return from Paris. Admit yourself to the south ward of a mental institution in Baltimore or Ann Arbor. Rest, baby, sleep. Let them bleed him out of you with leaches and fevers and pills and electroshock therapy. Read Sylvia Plath (her poetry, not The Bell Jar). Carve the words, “Out of the ash/I rise with my red hair/And I eat men like air” into the wall of your room. Do not buy a box of hair dye. Do not dye your hair red.

Pretend that you are cured. Fuck an orderly in the closet the night before your release. Speak in tongues. Speak with your tongue pushed against your stark white teeth.

4.

Do not call him from a truck stop in South Texas. Slip across the border and into the horror of a cartel drug war. Buy a pair of cowboy boots and a bottle of mescal. Kiss a criminal or two. Pretend to get addicted. Read Cormac McCarthy by candlelight in someone else’s bedand a white nightgown. Learn to ride a horse bareback. Bend your legs like this, cariña, and squeeze when want to go faster.

Pretend to fall in love. Pretend you still can. Speak softly in Spanish. Do not think of all the times you whispered secrets he couldn’t understand into his ear because he liked it; it reminded him of being seventeen and drunk in Puerto Rico, when his father called him a man.

5.

Do not call him when you come home. Call this home. Change the sheets on the bed in your parents’ house that was once yours. Remember not to overload the washer because, if you do, it will leak. Find your old journal from middle school and laugh until you cry. Offer to do the grocery shopping for Thanksgiving. Do not buy the beauty magazine next to the checkout counter. Do not buy the chocolates next to the checkout counter. Drink the entire bottle of gin ten minutes after you leave the checkout counter. Excuse yourself halfway through your brother-in-law’s monologue about practicing medicine in Peruvian jungles. Throw up everything you’ve eaten. Do not look at yourself in the mirror. Do not look yourself in the eye. Don’t forget to serve vanilla ice cream with the pie, honey, because that’s how your father likes it.

Don’t let on, sweetheart.

6.

Do not call him when the weather turns. Make plans to leave. When the snow starts, stay. Read maps obsessively, planning your next escape. Let the people you used to know see your face, pale and shockingly beautiful, in the street. Let them talk because, darling, in this town, talk is the only thing cheaper than you.

Set fire to the city. Try to draw him out of her apartment building. Despair when nothing works. Fall to the ground and beg for answers from that empty sky.

7.

Do not call him the second you land in a new city with everything you own packed in three suitcases. Ignore your older brother when he asks if you’ll ever be happy in one place for too long. Ignore your voicemails and letters from your old friends. Sign a twelve-month lease. Learn to speak Arabic from a pretty-eyed girl in a hijab at a community center. Read the Koran and the King James Bible simultaneously. Smile at a baptism of a baby you don’t know in the old cathedral on the south side of town. Make a promise to God that you’ll start going to Mass more often. Follow through. Take night classes. Get a job in a law library and make friends with the public defendants. Buy yourself a new typewriter and start new stories. Forget to call your father on his birthday. Tell everyone that this is your natural hair color. Dream of running into him on the street years after you’ve forgotten how to do anything but love him.

8.

Do not call him. Fall in love with someone else. Do not tell him about the racecar driver from Majorca. Kiss him, baby, and don’t you stop until the sky cracks open and swallows you whole.

21 notes

"

What To Do When Your Boyfriend’s Asshole Best Friend Says, “Hey, Never Trust Anything That Bleeds For Seven Days And Doesn’t Die,
Right?”
OR The Only Poem I’ll Ever Write About Periods.

Don’t excuse him because he’s had
at least three lite beers
and is sweating through his black button down
that his mom or exgirlfriend
probably bought him.
Don’t excuse him because he’s been turned down
by the last six girls he went on dates with
after meeting them on tinder
with a picture that’s seven years old
Don’t excuse him because
he’s usually such a nice guy
because you don’t want to be a bitch
because you don’t want to cause a scene
because when you were seventeen
your sister told you
no one likes an angry feminist

Tell him,
Hey, Asshole:
Let me explain something to you.
Every goddamn motherfucking month since I was eleven,
a part of me
tore itself to shreds
ripped itself apart inside me
and then remade itself.

So yes, I bleed for seven days
and I don’t die
You know what else can do that?
Gods.
Immortal beings.
Things of legend.
Fuck, I can even
create life.

So I say, never trust anything that can’t
bleed for seven days and not die.
You know what that makes it?
Weak
Fallible
Mortal.
So let’s see, hon,
What you’re made of.
If you can bleed for seven days
and not die.

Rip out his jugular with your teeth.
And when he bleeds for seven seconds
and dies,
spit on his corpse and say,
I thought not.

"

Katherine Tucker (determined-in-slc)

110,656 notes