"Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never one beautiful, it was just red." - Kait Rokowski

I wanna make poetry out of the way the boy who was my first grade best friend

there are years to work out the kinks.

my hands buzzing and my tongue stuck to the back of rusty teeth, i scream to write in an unmarked

language.

but spit wets the page instead.

i want to communicate by destroying our common language.

you are

one of the more lovelier sounds.

i find these days,

i can replicate you if i close my ears enough:

the clash of my spoon with the ice cream bowl,

the kiss my lighter leaves on the body of a candle,

The day I fell out of love with my body—

my capsule,

my shrine—

weakness gnawed away at the palms of my hands,

dissatisfaction consumed my waist,

and comfort withered away like the skin I picked at

day

and night.