girl in a pink dress with a swollen tongue. a hollowed out wasp nest. two dozen white swans. you wanted the truth so here’s the truth. you wanted my knuckles peeling so here’s the blood. welcome to sainthood.
we’re at a party in the middle of a river. all of the fish are belly up. the beer tastes like piss. you are laughing at something someone else says and i am giving myself gills. everyone is talking but no one is saying a word.
in twenty minutes, the river will dry. in twenty minutes, you’ll take my hand and pull me to the grassy bank. in twenty minutes, my advil will kick in and i’ll be too drunk to remember the sound our clothes make drowning.
tell it to me straight. i once washed my hands in bleach. i once promised a dove it wouldn’t die. i once cut open a rabbit’s heart. i once heard my neighbor slap his wife. i once spent two months reading the same four words over and over. i once burnt an ant. tell it to me straight: i don’t want blossoms or ribbons of song or decades of dreams and dreams and dreams.
in the hospital, i didn’t read any books and no one saw me drink all the apple juice. remember 06′ in the poconos? i didn’t know how to ride a bike. there was a dirt hill, trees long as legs, a sack of wood chips. we played cards every day.
there were a lot of things i don’t remember. a lot of things my body forgot before the rest of me did. a coyote with yellow eyes. a broken window. cigarettes in mouths that shouldn’t smoke. uncles with sour, slurred breath. there was a a boy who kissed a boy behind the pool fence. i didn’t say anything. not until now. mosquitos sucked welts onto our skin but we pretended they were hickies. you wanted love and love and more love. i just wanted to keep up.
in the hospital, they played the same csi episode over and over. it was the lawyer who killed his wife. you never called. each time hurt like the first.
but in the beginning, there was a wasp wing and a broken wrist and a story i needed to tell. in the beginning, there was a mouthful of water and no more tomorrows.