Gasoline spills

May 26, 2015 § Leave a comment

My neck is exposed, head thrown back off of your thigh. I used to be terrified exposing my throat. Holding it with my hands, I could squeeze through the tendons and bones, I’m a rubber doll, mold me into a pretzel, discard me with your old pizza boxes.

Mascara tears run down my face, I lick the kohl with my tongue, like blood from a nosebleed. I curl into your body, your stomach, holding your arm, I can feel all of our hearts. Your cigarette embers fall into my hair and the wool holding my body together. I want to hold my mouth open and swallow the ashes from your breath. I want to hold all of you inside of me, fill me with you.

I know you don’t want me. I create histories and futures in my brain, weaving together the coulds and shoulds. I’ve made an imaginary life. You will leave and I will continue on. I want to feel life from someone, anyone. I find it where I can. I want to feel someone touching me, telling me I’m so lovely, and leave before they realize. Before it is undone. I never manage to stick to the plan. I stay too long, become too attached. I break and there is no one to pick up the pieces, except for me. I never do.

Pieces of me scattered across the country, across the globe even. I am a poorly made sculpture, chipped away through time. Phantom limbs wake me in the night, I think you’re there but of course you’re not. You’ve long since left, but I still have print memories of your fingers running down my chest, click, click, click, across my sternum. Breath and lips touching the skin by my ear. Teeth holding skin of my hip.

I walk in the dark, fucking streetlights disturb me, can’t be helped. I like the country back roads, no lights but the sprinkle stars. I fall into the corn fields, light as a feather, floating up into the smoke from the bonfire of a family, maybe a stag and doe that I will not experience, no one to answer to or feel for, much easier to disappear.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

What’s this?

You are currently reading Gasoline spills at the Bulimic Baker.

meta

%d bloggers like this: