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Juice tastes like your spit on my lips

It overflows, slides down the point of my chin--

I can see the dirt, the darker spots

It smells like my backyard, like orange blossoms in the spring time

I am afraid.

It is a pale thing, 

for a dark body.

There are little particles 

of dried skin on my 

elbows and hips and knees

that are so white

he could only ever know 

I don't read the Bible. I lie a lot, tell people I've read Genesis--can one even read Genesis? The beginning of things, written--but I've really just perused it.

More often than not you will find language will bow for you

Put your palms on a notebook you filled as a child and with enough intention the push will bring up sentences and phrases you'd forgotten

I want you to kiss me until my lips bruise and pucker and purple and all I can taste is the inside of your mouth.

There is a sort of gentleness; a sort of beauty in the empty bottle of wine sitting on my dresser amongst more innocent things