early summer

falanx:

dried white mulberries smashed
between soft lips in the library. smears
of Revlon on burned skin. fire gleaming
through a glass of gold liquor; sparks
the same color shooting the full-moon sky.

lipstick smeared across the grocery list;
familiar wine-red. too dark to kiss away.
black clothes, black eyelids, black eyes.
a cold park bench, a playground at 2 AM
and a chest that tastes of bile. a phone call
she doesn’t remember. 

splash violent violet
and green onto skin in the shape
of a crescent. “i can give you a better bruise
than that.” rap blaring from under
the bridge. breaking into the theatre,

corridors echoing and empty. the pattern
of streetlights on tangled hair. the pattern
of sex and ache and anger. the pattern
of abandon, before throwing it up to consume
again. bleeding in bed, in war, and after
the running is done. the stink of vomit
on clean sheets. 

the stink of the love that won’t let go.
the ache of the ones who won’t leave me.