she cringes from the water splashed in her face,
it holds pieces of glitter from a late night, from a
time she censored everything around her;

she cringes because of the words he wouldn't scream,
because if he couldn't scream then he no longer loved.

she finds a bottle of water amidst the dirty laundry
she finds an old shirt of his, one he forgot he left,
one he would paint in, with cigarette holes and lightening streaks.

she finds everything when the murders of
yesterday have been forgotten and the flowers in her hair just aren't enough.

she takes her cues from him, as he brings another open palm to her throbbing head.

he is never gentle. he is never smooth with his words,
he is never able to wipe the mud from her cheek.

she feels because of this, she takes her time ironing the same pair of pants
because she knows he may never come back.

and sometimes she knows better than to do this, she knows better,
she fucking knew better than to keep his things so close to her heart
but she just couldn't stop censoring his actions to make it seem as if he didn't leave, he didn't stop loving her, he didn't throw water in her face, he didn't forget to take back the things he stole.

but he did. he did do these things and she finds a place among the town
to hide. and she finds a place around him to bury.

and she finds herself becoming a broken draw-bridge,
and she wants him to swim with her
and he plunges between her legs and

she censors because of it, she binds her tongue with paper clips and
she swears to god that she will never breathe it again.

03/28/2011

Posted on 03/28/2011
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