hot rocks and full moons: tales from moved on women

my skin is made of bubblegum and my hair is the sea moss that stretches over shores, you tip toe around me to avoid my touch on your skin. i am a mosiac of everyone i've ever loved and known and my tiles shimmer and glimmer accordingly—yet love is unfamilair to you so my abundance of it was seemingly violent.

i am not certain i know why you walked away, i had sat and thought about it for months, in the end my wondering outlived your loving and that gave me my answer. yet if you asked the two of us, he would blame the xanax and i would blame the full moon.

there is a closeness in nothingness and as i sit in abandoned factories i think of you, but not in the same way i once did. an apple rests in my palm in place of a cigarette and as my blisters heal over my lungs thank me whilst your gums leak quiet sufferings—just something to take the edge off.

to leave the dead at rest and give the dying a peaceful send off i will not think to call you nor will you aimlessly reside in my dreams, you would not be glad to know of your placement there and i will respect your wishes. there can be no more "what about us?", because truly...what about me?

so, in the silence of parting i will peel off my skin and plaster it to each and every surface i can think of—the bottom of a school desk, beside a rubbish bin, the heel of my converses. each time you visit the beach, count your blessings as sea moss drags along the soles of your feet and the palms of your hands just know that each time you chew cinnamon bubblegum, you'll think of me.

i will continue to drink lychee juice in the summer as i sit on hot rocks and you will not remember i don't even like the beach.