Tremors

He holds the key to a closet of things that rattle.

The door is inside out.

I’d forgotten about the closet, forgotten about the door.

For an entire year,

I’d forgotten that I'd loved him.

My Lover

This is a sexually repressed piece of writing. Through my descriptions you will be able to surmise the hidden sexual meanings. I lay on my back, and of course, this is sexual. The light beams that carry particles that fall on my shoulders, chest, lips, and thighs, are meant to be my lover. The flexing of my muscles in response to these waves shows my desire and willingness, but the fact that he is light and offers no tangible thing to grasp shows that I am unsatisfied by him.

He is not enough.

I will now turn off the lights, and let you overanalyze.

Jessie

Her fingertips touch her cigarette through the holes of her gloves. Here she’s safe. Known. Her lips pull back with her head as barks of laughter issue forth.

She promises me she’ll be dead by 28.

She sees you like a tall wine glass full of water. She sees love as a means to avoid boredom. She sees you.

She swears she’ll be dead by 28.

And if she has her way with you, she will be.

Just 

My lips are raw.

His blankets still smell like me, with my spaghetti blond hair clinging to them. My rubbed off makeup is still on his shirt, directly on the place where his heart rhythms soothed. My nerves remember the pulses he gave them. 

Ruined.

How…?  

I needed. 

He gave.

So 

sorry.