My low

your features don’t contort when you cry.

tears skate down your face until they get caught

on the side of your nose 

or  the tip of your chin

like watery fangs,

ready to sink into the barrows of my chest.

 

my face shrivels in pain,

blood washes under my skin,

an aquarium of aching.

I feel a rush beyond the bridge of my nose, 

flare signals rocketing upwards.  

the ends of my lips point towards the floor,

as i cough out throat-born shields,  

barricading you up against the wall. 

 

i hate to see you like this. 

c

crisscross

NY

17 years old

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    when a star dies, it is a violent explosion.

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    and while it pulses with hot gas and blue light,

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