when you wake up too many hours too late,
i will have left with signs of
i don’t love you anymore.
my twenty-seven dollar red lipstick
will sit smudged on your jugular, like weapon.
your hair will reek of stale wine
and your hands will be curled beside you,
my hills and valleys still caved into them
from the half-conscious explorations of
just past 2 AM.
this is not about warmth. baby, this is not
about her perfume or your lights off policy
or your hands on my thigh before my lips
this is about my apologies
and how i nibble on their edges for breakfast
when there is nothing else in the pantry
because they have started to taste
this is about “fucking” makes your lip curl
but my legs go to sleep every night
like they should be ready for you,
with your fingers between my pink,
this is about cringe, baby, cringe.
this is about my spine itches with
yes please god
when i think of you reaching for my ankle,
reaching for a place to start your crawl
into the fleshy and gem-like of me with
the smell of my morning mouth as your
only gateway pass,
and finding nothing there
but the ashes of my last cigarette.
this is about there being no ashtray in sight.
this is about
i smoked that shit this morning,