You have grown accustom to the feeling of swollen lungs, oiled joints—arteries so full you are constantly stitching them back together with your mother’s sewing needle. I watch you build upon yourself until you are more of what you already were—teeth and fingernails and bones sharp enough to break through skin.
You are too much and I am not enough. The space between us lingers like coffee rings on your nightstand and promises you make to girls who aren’t me.
Please tell me what it’s like to feel full—to taste sea water at the back of your throat and have constantly-warm fingertips. One day I will close the gaps between my lips, my thighs, my ribs—one day I will stop asking boys with long eyelashes and small hearts to tell me stories at 3 a.m.
It’s easy to think that you built your own empire when you’ve grown up to believe that your bones are composed of anything but dust. I will leave you dead daisies and crumpled love notes and what I mean to say is this; I have given myself up to boys with swollen knuckles and girls with lips like rose petals for far too long.
Please let me run away with whatever part of myself I haven’t sold for magic beans. Tell me one last story but don’t open your eyes when you hear the mattress creak at 4 a.m.
