She is venus 

A clusterfuck of 

all she wants 

and cannot have

a heap of dreams 

covered in 

powdered sugar,

melted silver lockets, 

all the faces inside.

She loves with 

ripped skin

untethered to 

the physical plane 

of cold hard cash 

and cut baby hair.

Psyche sits and 

breathes fire 

wishing away 

hesitation and doubt

while her fingers caress

the wake of her 

destruction. 

Leave me alone

Don’t look 

Don’t look

Don’t look

at me when my

eyes begin to crack

like créme brûlée

and my teeth spell out 

years of swallowing my cries

hoping to get the bitter taste 

of girlhood off my tongue. 

I used to be pretty 

my face 

my body 

Is now festered 

from his 

possessive

touch 

My innocence 

carved from me 

find it 

collected 

beneath his fingernails. 

And the worst part?

Even alone

I still feel 

his eyes 

 hands 

mouth

all over me

There are all kinds of love. 

Of which I have experienced many

I have loved before audiences

I have intertwined fingers in hidden alcoves 

I have fluttered my lashes in conversation

I have raked my nails against tan skin 

            pale skin 

                         soft skin

            thick skin 

I have tangled limbs with lovers 

I have stitched my mouth tight 

I have whimpered in the dark 

and I have slow danced at midnight 

Love has engulfed me 

Love has shattered me 

Love has inspired me

   murdered me 

It found me when I hid in the backroads of Appalachia 

It hunted me in the woods beneath an unfinished moon 

It stalked me in my dreams. Captured me when 

I only wanted 

to be free

And after all my encounters 

with love in its variety 

I have found that none exist 

without the worst sort of despair

If I had sex with you do you know what I’d do? I’d start with a touch on the back of your neck and rake my nails through your dark hair. You would get those bumps on your arms when my lips brush your jaw and my breath skims your ear. Up and down, your chest would jerk, real fast, like your pulse. I would laugh. It would be a deep laugh. With a warm sound that makes your mouth dry. Please, you would beg. And I’d smile. Left, right, left, right. My hands walk down your front. So slowly. All of your bones are taught and each breath gets scarce. My flesh would melt on yours. It would burn so nice. So nice. Like the warm sun. Our souls would fade, whisps in the air. They dance in smoke and lust, and they will still dance once you have come down from your bliss. The bliss I gave you. And when it is all over if we were to lock eyes on a street, you would just call me 

that girl you fucked once.

On Sundays, I go to church and pray for you. I pray in the third row closest to the aisle. So He can see how devoutly I pray for you. I stand on my toes to look over the pews and fidget with my barrets so they look like His crown. My prayers answered. And they are all for you. 

On Sundays, I would go to church and pray for you. I would sing hymns until my chubby cheeks turned red and the priest would smile in my direction. I would pray on my knees until I was lost between the hymnals. I would be lost for so long in my prayers that my Sunday best reeked of incense. I would lose myself every Sunday. And it would be for you. 

On Sundays, I went to church and prayed for you. I prayed that you loved me more than the unknown numbers in your phone. I prayed you loved me more than the cold midnight air and those drags from Chesterfields. You loved me more than the sound of bet chips and a shuffled deck. You loved me enough to tuck me in at night and eat breakfast with me in the mornings. So much that you called just because you wanted to. To hear how I grew every minute of every day. I prayed I was loveable enough for you. 

On Sundays, I still go to church and pray for you. I pray for me too. I pray that my toes will once again stand on their edge. My hair will return to what it was before I tamed it down. I ask Him if he ever heard me at all. If he hears me now. Did I pray hard enough? Were my words in the wrong order? Did I want it too much? Not enough. Not enough. 

Not enough. 

Was I a molted feather in His plan? A smudged verse in his scripture? Forgotten and alone, missing a few pieces, having too many spares. 

I still go and still pray. 52 Sundays came and went. Again and again. My seat is now discolored on the third pew closest to the aisle. He still stares at me but I no longer stare back. I no longer meet his empty gaze.

I used to pray on Sundays. Now, I don’t pray at all.