I wish there could be an exit-
interview for the end of a
relationship, where I could
take you to a little room in

the apartment we bought
together on a whim, where I
could ask what it was exactly
that made you fall out of

love with me, where we could
discuss, in detail, the things
we both could have improved
upon. Maybe I would tell you

about the guy who touched
my thigh in a bar once or that
my friends never really liked
you. Maybe you would finally

be able to tell me the truth:
that you’re tired of unclogging
my hair from the shower drain,
that I sing too loudly, that I

don’t cook enough of your
favorite foods. That love, for
you, is just a convenience, 
an apartment to share rent

on, a warm bed to come home
to. That it seems to usually end
up as either a falling apart or
a falling together and it’s been

years since you’ve needed 
stitches.

“Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?” — Maya Angelou

Smile. Shave your legs. Do your hair.
Smell nice. Dress appropriately. Don’t
be a slut. Don’t be a whore. Don’t be
crude. Don’t call him first. Let him pay
on the first date. Smile and look pretty.
Stand in that corner. Sit. Heel. Stay. Like
a fucking dog. Look both ways before
crossing the street. Carry pepper spray
in your bag. Please him. Tease him.
Smile. Let him stay even when you are
tired. His pleasure is more important
than yours. Wait to have sex until you 
are married you stupid fucking slut. 
Smile. You are supposed to be soft. 
Supposed to be an object. Supposed 
to be immune to the world’s quiet decay.
Supposed to be pretty pretty pretty and
sit with your legs closed and chew with
your mouth closed and close close close 
yourself up because no one wants to see
the color of your insides. No one wants to
be responsible for the flood. Don’t be
such a bitch. Smile. When he hits you 
do not hit him back. Wear concealer.
Smile. Convince yourself you love him,
that everyone makes mistakes. Smile.
Forgive him. Be afraid to be alone. Be 
afraid to be left behind. Be afraid of the
knowing look on his face as he kisses
your bruises with chapped lips. Be afraid
of the truth. Smile. Be afraid of yourself.

to your boyfriend of two years,
you never touch him without
putting moisturizer on first. 

For Julie

That summer—not the first, but
hopefully one of many, was the 
summer you grew into your body,

realized what love was and how 
to keep it a secret. The trees,
though green and leafy, still

reminded you of flames. The 
whole world was on fire the 
summer you fell in love. There 

are so many sweet memories
already. Him, shirtless, the curve
of his wholeness pale and full 

beneath the waning, envious
moon. How he touches you like
you are sacred, like you are

precious water in a drought. You
want to count the seconds, minutes,
hours spent together, want to 

write his name in permanent vapor
on the bathroom mirror after a 
shower. It is summer: sticky, hot, 

where you sweat even on the
backs of your knees, where you
go to sleep with the windows

thrown open. You want to tell 
your mother how the thought of
him makes you feel flammable,

how your body leans into him 
on the long walk home, how you
crawl into bed almost drunk 

after he kisses you. How you start
small fires all over town just by 
looking at each other. How every

time you begin to say his name 
you swallow it back down like lighter
fluid. You know your mother,

know she would hide the matches if
she knew you burned like this. 

His hands on you like weights, leaving
imprints on your body like your skin is
wet cement. You want to call him a million

things, name what cannot be named, 
crawl inside of him and fold yourself 
into his spine. Instead you cannot bring

yourself to call him the night after you
fuck each other fiercely in his bedroom
like animals, gnawing and pulling and 

scraping against one another like the
cure to loneliness lives in the nucleus 
of your cells. Instead, you put on a dress

that shimmers and makes you feel
naughty as it brushes against your thighs.
You meet dozens of boys at bars, chant 

I love you I love you I love you and hope
one of them would say it back. No one
does. Instead you eat the image of him 

reflected in the mirror above the sink
after a shower taken hastily together,
reeking of some floral and pepper scent 

that your mother bought. You touch
your hips and feel him there, all dead
weight lonely. Above your navel, his

fingerprints. 

For M

I could not look away the night you
pulled the long sleeve of your shirt
back from your wrist and sliced the
skin open. I couldn’t understand what
I was immediately seeing: a deep
cut and then a bloom of red and then
so much of it, an entire field. I wanted
to see inside of you, but not like this,
oh god, not like this, where you could
have been fashioned from velvet. Night
after night, over grainy Skype calls,
you’d take the blade to your skin and
cut in deep and hard, like you were
digging for something infinitely more
precious than gold. I scour the internet
for discounted plane tickets but I am
always drawn back to the ring of scars
leading up your arms and the wrists I
love so much. You fall in love with the
way your skin opens and closes. We 
used to be a miracle. Will your skin
fall apart in my hands? If we were wild
things I would wear your skin and you
would wear mine. I hold my breath when
my screen shows me your face. You
are so far away. Each scar, meridian.