the acid in my throat more honest than the orgasm ever was.
My hands tremble across the tile,
my knees burning,
hair stuck to my face, my mouth.
I don’t usually puke after a clit lick.
That kind of sickness is reserved for after they’re inside me.
When I’m just a body, a hole, and nothing else.
This is all wrong.
I wipe my mouth, flush the toilet, run the sink,
splashing water on my face to eraseAndrew.
It doesn’t work.
He's all I fucking see.
// 8:46 PM - EAST VILLAGE, NYC //
I’ve got graves in my head.
Men I've survived.
I buried them six feet deep.
Headstones labeled:Do Not Revisit.
They stay quiet,
until fear and anxiety grab a shovel
and let the memories crawl out when I’m weakest.
Or drunk.
Or needing punishment.
They’re not people anymore,
but bad echoes of my past.
But Andrew’s grave is carved into my chest,
and it’s empty.
He refuses to die in me,
has been throwing dirt at me since that night.
I kept telling myself it was a dream.
I’m also a fucking liar
