The last 3 letters of the spring

The idea of a headache
more like getting drunk 
in a packed, heartbreakingly smelling bar
A universal truth claiming
when your soul cracks open, it reeks of cheap sex and chlorine 
from all that cleaning I’ve been drowning myself in: high functioning depression 
of eastern european women; beautiful vision

Toying with a random bartender
as if he were a mouse I took hostage under my wicked claws 
You like watching me flirt with strangers
clenching your fists under the table
to prove how manly you are: you don't want me, you wanna be me; gorgeous view

Knowing perfectly well, I’ll write something about this very moment later
a couple of lines
saying
the idea of being the last one sober
The smell of eternity dying slowly in your arms, holy
no more than a death unknown to cold-blooded creatures; that’s us

Two cowards silently giving up 
meeting each month in crowded bars, reliving surrender until they stop pretending 
that
this 
isn’t love.

Don’t wanna talk to a specialist.

Got you some books
because I don't fuck people who never read 
I said
smart people are hot
also 
commitment 

Had I burnt the bridge with myself on it? Leaving behind my right shin imprinted on your right shoulder, kiss the traces of hope I’ve been stepping on, stark naked, what's given would have stayed
what’s taken would have never lingered - still afraid 
of heights, grounding really, looking down, can’t see a thing 
You get some perspective, he said. Indeed. What the heck do I know about skyscrapers? 
I am a small-town girl; I dream little, or nothing at all
As a kid
would draw sun rays on my wallpaper
They covered them with an old-ass pungent wardrobe

Chain yourself to a stone, or perhaps, a tree, yes, a tree with yellow
dark-orange-heart-shaped marks of 
withdrawal

They say it hits you harder than lightning, another fancy word for enlightenment
1 in a million kind of thing
hiding inside an apartment like an attic “j” (spelled as “i”) woke-ghost
It’s life or death with a forest mosquito 
failing miserably, I promise it’s gonna work!
How do I know when it’s really over? 
‘cause it’s never when you do the leaving

What if it’s still buzzing deep in my ear, murmuring sound -
displaying affection in public, they all wanna be us, do I even…
Harder next time, you know I am asking for it
Lovey-dovey for freaks!
Don’t forget your keys, you weirdo.

You fix toys, not love.

I must find 
comfort 
in the slow mornings, or something as simple as toast 
‘cause what's left. When my twisted skin hits you like bricks -
You must protect your walls, or worse
You must prove your worth to invisible kings
‘cause what's left. When it's empty in the room -
once full of clothes, coffee mugs left dirty, and little half friendships

I could have done it sleepless and barely breathing 
abandoning the god of my own in the name of OURS
In the midst of oblivion - oversized hoodies for men 
hiding all the truthful jokes about life, death, and leaving

If I were to be gone, or worse
If I were to be honest, and stay
Would you be wearing my smell on your clothes? 
Would you look for comfort in ghosts? 

To see you crumble
To write a poem about the first time I cried in your kitchen 
To mirror your dry patches and blurry faces, fading
To notice the lights on and sob on the sidewalk
To buy something yellow 
a bunch of flowers, a slowly-eating-your-way-to-my-heart birthday card—think sunshine
Or call you a coward 

Doesn't look like I am having fun? I guess I am not.

To answer the phone that never calls, call the phone that never answers, unless something bad has
happened: do you remember the bitter taste of coffee on the second day after? 
For me, it was...the slightly burnt toast, and the stupid cheerful 
“what an asshole” (no, he’s not, but what would you know about loss)

To write a poem about the time I cried in your kitchen, whispering vows
To hear the slam of a door that never closed
To unlove you with a stranger on a windowsill of a russian panel building; repeat it 3times -
so no one dies.

To weep out my leather tears while I sip from your old-fashioned; unless you stalk me on the internet, no longer own a tub, and my oven is electric. The roofies wouldn't help, only give me a headache. 
To write a poem about the time I cried in your kitchen - hits home, I thought
To watch you crumble.

Tell nothing
Just sit with me in silence
Do nothing
Just let me feel your mess
It caught me off guard
with my hair undone
In my bleached underwear
Before I washed my face 
In my dark play-act bathroom
In my empty play-act home
Look away
remember me crumble
say I am making myself cry
Blame me for my loneliness and rest your head on my belly 
In the last moment, close your eyes
then shut the door in my face and when you go
I beg you—stay gone!
say 
You don’t remember
If anyone’s asking
say
She was cold-hearted February
when I was August
say 
You were freezing 
when I was burning
say 
You’re better off alone

missed by 2 
minutes of stillness
a connection train
between two
strangers
I said
I miss talking to you
You said, “Any plans for the weekend?”
I said
I am afraid of you 
You said “I am not that scary”

And then;
The metal box went rigid
It’s only a matter of time
at home, you smell my long black hair on your shampoo - to cut off is to remember 
the riddance

One of the strangers didn’t feel well; The conductor told us later
It's not quantum physics: emergencies happen; you couldn’t have fixed it
I know you tried, though, and
sometimes that's the reason why butterflies fly
They stick to the surface and never leave 
That one place or, 
that one person who is 
nothing but a sticky slice of melted murder, once in a while looking for mates, but never actually 
mating

Getting sick of my trains -
missed and calling me crazy later? 

There is grief, and then there is this
Nobody's dead, but I think I might be little by little: what if she's tiny and blonde?!
You’d miss my call if I ever tested the waters, still cold. 
You’d miss my silence if my absence meant something. 
I missed my golden boy, how could I not?
What if she’s true, or worse, what if she’s blonde?!

My grief has a name
green eyes
always right
never feels anything 
except for all the feelings there are

My grief hates being tickled 
quick to judge your lack of confidence in the absence of a trial, 
unless you pled guilty in an act of faith, or stream of consciousness; then it’s your loss!
I had a dream where I was 
still walking down that aisle 
despite daring all its crimes
 made in the name of self-love, or God, or someone almighty, unless
I was missing myself
Vile, on the other hand, wasn’t I?

My grief has a name
used to hide in my arms
from all that darkness there is
My grief has a name and a track record of not being ready
plays it nice until all that’s left is violence
My grief has a name
except for all those days, it's silent 

Went through airport border control 
twice
You would have laughed so hard - very dana-coded ofc (checks out)
The little things which aren't little and the bitter longings - will they ever sweeten? (Lol)
Tell me more. about the time(s) you felt like running. You said, It's been a while
I said, I can(’t) relate
Happily ever after, but make it poorer. My silly spells, your heartfelt walks away. Abandon all hope, Or, something deeper

I would have downloaded another stupid app, just to eavesdrop right down: 
How do you open up your soul? I have a superpower
Allowed, Are They? Enough 
to see blindfolded windows…Not to worry
there is always more to witness…homeless love 
without shelter. guilting you into submission
questioning my witchness. How did I sink into
that sickness? Or,
somehow deeper
Its highest form
of course

That was sad, there’s no point denying how sad it was
You only recognize it, when you’re no longer in it
It was the real me, and it was the real you
yet "it wasn't really it"
In the middle of the night
brawling the air just to come out alive at 07:31
as if I was never on the other side
as if I was never THE…
still fighting back my wounded mirrors
shadows of my innocence 

I'll hold your hand when the big, scary guy lurks around your house 
politely scream your name (in my head, how else), and let (the other) kiss my shins

I’ll find my way out
I say, but I can't 
give you more than I’m allowed to grieve 
You love, and then you lose and there is no other meaning
It's not that deep
It was one of those things on one of those days
...
That's it.