standing on the trampoline and swearing
at the velvet-stretched sky.
they were only words, can’t blame me for simple
you know you’re as guilty as i am.
they made it all sound so desirable and sweet,
as syrupy as the cherry kisses we used to joke and laugh about, and now
i can’t taste that sick, bloody flavor
she leans on her hard, angular desk
and focuses on watching her chest inflate,
rise and fall, rise and
fall. her fingers stray to her right cheek,
always slightly sunburned since that day. her lips sting and throb with wanting
as she looks through the telescope at the moon,
seeing an echo of the passion that’s gone missing wherever she looks deep inside,
of the angel trapped in her peripheral vision.
you shouldn’t write on yourself, they scolded
looking at the stories marching around her legs and
the reminders on her wrists.
she digs the tip of the pen in harder, glaring back at them,
burrowing down under the sheets,
holding to the only self defenses she has left.
hunger is a nearly irresistible force.