The first time I spent the night
I was high on someone else's coke & never mentioned it because I know romantics need to believe in becoming constellations, not cautionary tales. I never told you what number. Couldn't trust you not to braid every hair left behind in my shower into a noose. You loved rope. Loved twisting my arms behind me, leaving bruises from the weight of your hands. If you're going to choke, never go for the throat. It's the chest that begs weight. Look, blood pooled like a fist around the heart. The first time I was afraid of someone I loved—I can't tell you that. Not because I don't know. Because I don't remember. I don't know where this tree was planted, if it's a tree at all. Let it be a cactus instead. Roots running shallow & wide. The last of the good sex was had over the phone while you were in a hotel in the desert & I, terrified of what heat spells as it rises. I woke up on fire, which is to say drenched in a way I prayed for but never expected to arrive. The last of the good sex ended with me telling you how I wanted to hurt & making you listen while I ate the glass of every dead star.
0 Comments
|
Emily O'NeillEmily O'Neill is a writer, artist, and proud Jersey girl. Her recent poems and stories can be found in Dreginald, Five Quarterly, and Split Rock Review, among others. Her debut collection, Pelican, is the inaugural winner of Yes Yes Books' Pamet River Prize and she edits poetry for Wyvern Lit. |