They call it phantom pain.
When a limb misses it's owner,
when it stays even though it doesn't.
So is that why
I can barely feel
pads of fingers on my skin,
ghostly palms cupping my face,
nails tracing my lines,
and a leg curling over me?
Do I want to know
who these spirit touches belong to?
Phantom pain,
when something is gone,
but also isn't.

It feels like I swallowed a bolt of lighting,
like someone reached down my throat,
and pulled out my vital guts,
replacing them with fire and gold.
Guitar chords stick in my throat like the barrel of a gun,
but no hands to contain me.

I think I ought to focus more on
the ones who love me back.

Fill my life with
more striped shirts,
buzzing bass between my ears,
the cold wind hitting my hips.
Vending- machine love and
golden eyeshadow.
Lying sideways on the seat, with my legs against the wall.

My heart lives permanently in my throat,drained of blood and white, veins growing up my neck and drawing out in the shape of words.

why did no one tell me how good lips feel on my wrists
until i cut them?
i
don't have anyone to kiss my scars
for now i just have to settle
for this sinking feeling in my stomach
this creature
scratching inside my chest
and throat
but even then
you can't hold that close to you
at night
it won't stay still
or warm enough

My heart is an empty grass field
except for a pole
whose flag is always at half-mast.

I'm smiling wider than I can in photos,
probably because of the music playing,
like watered-down honey being poured
into where my brain used to be,
but my stomach still sits
like I just swallowed my own heart.

My heart is buttered cake
with brown sugar frosting.
It can't take much.
It melts at the edges sometimes,
and there's mold on the corners.
My eyes are made of green-apple jolly ranchers
that are sticky in your hands.
My lips are two halves of a strawberry,
sometimes purple and bruised
like the words that come out of them.
My hands
are made of milk and honey
but sometimes
not
as warm and comforting.
There's apple juice
blue slushies
and hot sauce
running through my veins
and cookie crumbs
behind my brain.
I am a feast
and
not
prepared
for
you.