the lovedrunk cowgirl

I’ve got a burning jaw 

and I made plans for sunday.

I blame it on tequila 

and the landscape of her body.

her brown eyes and texas rain

break my bones and ease the pain.

surprises have a way of

shaking me to my core. 

every time I tried running, 

her tired lips asked for more.

I’m face up in a hotel bathtub,

reciting your address, 

and I’m wondering 

if it’s ever peaceful to drown.

Every flower shop is closed 

and these ribs are a ghost town. 

I licked the knife 

you tried to kill me with and

I borrowed your morals

for the evening.

how much will I have to bleed

before flowers grow beneath me?

how many teeth will I have lost

before someone opens their hand to feed me?

all she brought were motel eyes,

some stolen records,

and a suitcase packed with lies.

but I know I won’t question her.

(I like the way illusion feels).

I like bandaging up her melancholy

and her torn up heels. 

the stage is tilted,

the roses are wilted,

and I’m playing with my life-

answering her questions and

counting the goosebumps on her thighs.

God grant me no mercy. 

I know that it’s my turn. 

I kissed the devil’s feet

and I asked for heaven in return.

no, I’m not built of air and silk. 

but I rest in dark circles 

that hold your heavy eyes. 

my kiss lingers on unwashed glasses 

left on your bedside.

I am every 

scar, 

cut,

and bruise 

whose origin you cannot identify 

I haunt your body and your home indefinitely

my lipstick is a memory- 

you fear it every time you look at roses, 

watch the sunset,

and bleed. 

it’s true, I’ve made you too afraid to even blink.

my ghost is all that’s left of me.

the clothes you left have lost their scent,

the plants your sister gave us are finally dead.

if love is sacrificial, you made me her lamb.

if love is lost, I am an expeditionary force

charting old territory and setting new traps.

no one tells you how to how to find yourself

when they start burning the maps.

4 am and my hands are burnt.

my eyes are bloodshot 

and my body is numb.

what is it about her that feels like home

if haunted houses are all I’ve ever known?

I set the table for seven.

I pull up a mismatched chair.

I’m the lingering corpse-

I’m the party crasher in the corner

watching the seven ghosts 

of the girls I’ve been.

They all know each other.

They share inside jokes and recipes

while I wrestle with words

and all of their memories.

the smoke I stole from your lungs 

stopped my breathing.

I remember you well

but mostly I remember you leaving.

then came the house fire.

you know that one, don’t you? 

I remember.

I always remember-

just like I did last night

when the moon looked at me

and bled.

red.

in another life I would have met you in a forest fire-

one that made the sun feel small.

I hang my coat on the chair you made

and cauterize the wound on my chest.

I feel nothing- all I know is your name.

the spirits that linger over marble floors

whisper to me that there’s nothing more.

You’d eat the clock if it meant you could consume time.

You’d lick the dust off December’s bone

if it meant tasting something you’ve already known.