Feb 12

injuries acquired from slipping on ice:

I walked 
through piles of words 
in too short boots 

that left them room 
to slip in with every step I take 
and melt into puddles 
under my heels 

from the 
never yielding eyes 
of fruit flies 
that cling to the past 

and break down the 
reputations 
of girls with too many doubts
hidden by perfect eye liner 

and impeccably
arranged  
sentences that imitate everything 
they've read about confidence 

picking at my skin and 
too short hair 

and wondering what 
my jeans ,that are too loose,
would look like crumpled
on the floor 

where your hands 
sometimes go 
when its just the two of us 

and draw diagrams 
of each and every inch 
of my chest 
with their loud voices 

and I crawl inside 
myself and disappear 

and now I carry 
this little piece of 
panic 
under my heart 

that radiates through 
my arms and into my fingers 
and she's named whore 
and she gets a little bigger 
every time you make me smile 

and she replaces every one 
of my cells with 
guilt 
and worry 

and no matter how hard 
I scrub 
she sticks on every inch of me 
like ink tattooed into my too young skin 


and sometimes my skeleton 
gets sea sick 
trapped inside itself  

and my socks 
drenched in eyes that watch my 
every step 
and breath 
and doubt 
and your hands that 
hold mine a little too tight

take too long to dry