in the 1950’s they were worried about another Ice Age, i eat chocolate covered almonds and pretend i am wearing gowns made in Egypt, when the phone rings i never say hello first, i tell my plants that you’re going to be stuck inside these walls forever and i can hear them rotting to the sound of your name, i have patches of the ocean breathing inside of my skin.

my mother keeps asking me to carve my soul into the moon and i keep trying to explain to her that i am paper-mâché and you can’t swallow rocks even if they’re coated with pomegranates and syrup, i wash my face with apple soap and boys with black lungs trace continents with their tongues against the curve of my neck, i wake with burgundy bruises decorating white skin, i tell my father that the cigarettes that fall out of my jacket are my boyfriends, we’ve been together for two years and his scent reminds me of broken lamps. 

when people tell me they’re numb, i askwhat color they think their souls are, mines translucent i always reply and they don’t understand, i tell the lady next to me on the subway how your words were cancer in my mind and she asks me if i’m seeing someone to help me cope with death,  i tell your tombstone that i think the stars look like flowers tonight and when it begins to rain i know it’s your way of saying "I’ve made the
constellations grow gardens for you.”