i.

you mother sang to you when you
were young but her words stung your
insides like a wake up call from the life
that you weren’t living and her voice
stuck to your eardrums like a sickly
warp; i guess that all you ever heard
was screaming and i guess that’s why
you only ever speak to me when you’re angry

ii.

you were raised on a diet of decay but,
luckily for you, you found a home in the
edges of knives and underneath bottle
caps and on the brink of forgetting what
it means to have a home; it’s late and
you should be sleeping

iii.

you took my skin and you wore it just
like a robe, you said that wearing it
made you feel just like a queen; by
the time i had figured out what i was
good for, you had already told the walls
not to speak to my howling ghost

iv.

you keep pulling corks and i keep
thinking about pulling this trigger;
you left your knife by the sink and
i wondered what illness you thought
you had purged from your body

v.

that night we built castles out of
stars and our own heavy, brick
breaths; you told me that
everything you could have ever
wanted was sitting right
in front of you