if i were eloquent enough
i'd like to press deep between the pages of a phone book
for years with leaves a little withered, petals not the right shade of rose
quietly making home out of faerie dust.

still, my nails are not princess-like. they are stubs of jagged edges
on stripped branches where rings were always a little too loose,
promises a little too empty.

and i've tried to pout coquettishly in a nineteen-thirties heartache way
playing pretend in scarlet dresses.
i've tried to steal hearts with no place to put them.

there are bruises on the ridges of my spine from
wearing my skin too tight.
bones feel heavy where you rest your hands, hesitantly,
between the sharp angles of shoulder blades as if i might
bleed black and blue ink through the white of your palms.

i am not beautiful to the bone.

it was you though, who said every mark on my pale arms
is a second closer to death.

now i carve your name continuously on these veins
to see how it feels for you to slowly kill me.