i cut off all my hair in august but i've been growing it out since then. i chop my bangs off before bed when i feel like i need to stop loving you.
i chop my bangs off every other night.
i eat your lies through my teeth and i understand it may sound like i'm saying it all wrong but it makes sense when i lick my wounds and it tastes like lost godhood. in a strange way, it all leaves me sanctified.
i'll clean her lipstains off of your neck while feigning laughter and only realise it when we accidently hold eye contact for seven seconds too long. when i realise i care for you too violently to be a concerned friend. too murderously to be a conceited lover.
i'll flirt with death and pretend it's you instead.
i'll make a home out of my grief. the grief from ever loving you in a certain type of way that i shouldn't be loving you. i'll make a home out of my grief. i'll make a home out of my love for you because at least it was mine. i'll search for lemons in the basket and sunlight on the white carpet. i'll reach my arm out when it rains outside and when the bed feels lighter. pretend you were there at one point in time and then you weren't. pretend the lemons were grown in the back yard or the front yard. and not from aisle fourteen to the left. wherever is more spacious. pretend the carpet is white and not stained wine. pretend i made a home out of love letters written to me by you.
but you're no writer. well you are. in some ways... you write my name on bathroom walls and cherries upon my cheeks and you write lies when it's past 3 in the morning and you write her name more than you ever write your own.
and i'll search for bitterness every morning in my cup of coffee because that's all that is familiar to me. because that's all i ever tasted from loving you.
you clot in my blood like tumours inside a tall child's rage. and i'll drink tea in the morning and tea in the evening. herbs at night and i'll dissolve you into my bones. make myself easy to swallow. easy to digest. easy to love.
pearls will dangle from my teeth and i'll coat them with your skin cells. you don't get it. i don't expect you to.
you're no writer-
oh wait...
