salt rims and waterlines: prescriptions from unlicensed practitioners

one day my boy will ask me for definitions of a muse, i pray that day never comes or at least does so once i am a better girl. i fear he will assume authority that is woven into my words, that saturates salty rose cheeks. i worry that he will see past deceit, he will take to my brain with a hook and needles and pick out lyricism that is potentially beautiful—but loyal only to past lovers.

god knows i don't dream of bodies i have previously been mangled by in pillowless beds, or strobe fueled clubs, but i cannot stop the wandering of my eyes. and for that, i am no better than any man i have ever condemned. the guilt weighs on my shoulders and solidifies to my tonsils, sooner or later my throat will close over and i cannot hurt you anymore.

in a sickeningly inescapable way, the truth clings to my skin like salt covered ice and burns with an ache more painful than my actions were ever intended to. yet, intention is not equal to consequence—trust me, i know that now.

the way your skin is soft and forgiving, the way my shirt is often pulled up to my collarbone, the way noses run when tears brew and smudge black waterlines. my boy is something i can't have prescribed or plucked off the street if you know the right people, but i'll become an addict if nothing else to consume him everyday.

what proves that this is reality? that you are as committed to this ridiculous ideal as i am? i will take whatever you give me—hold the salt—and it is sinful and blinding, but i cannot keep running. my knees ache, my calves cramp, and who i am if not...

that's the problem, i don't know how to finish that sentence anymore. i am done, i am sorry, but that is all.