day 272

The skin on the back on my past lover smells spineless. We had spent years trying to build a home out of brittle bones and bony rib cage. At night, I sprawled myself across the void we called comfort. I didn't want to be alone, but we both didn't know how to love me. There would be a thick musk in the air every time you opened your chest and I mistook it for higher being. I prayed, just to live in this attic. To sleep underneath the slant of a crooked smile and pretend the ceiling would accidentally cave in. I wanted to die as close to the clouds as possible. We had become swollen from sleeping in each others' oceans. I remember when you asked me if I knew how to swim. I lied to you and told you that I did. I didn't want you to save me if I drowned in your own misery. There are times I miss the buoyancy in your screams so bad that I've learned to tread water like I know how to fly. You told me I sing like an angel and I told you to go to hell for not loving me like I dreamed. I've spent years trying to build a home out of your sweat. I know a couple that wears the stench of weariness like they're too exhausted to change. I pray, just to live in their attic. Have them mistake me for a god as I show up in their dreams. I know they only share a mattress just to fill the void they feed between their limbs. They sleep on each others' arms until they grow numb. They wake up and forget the way their bodies naturally cave into each other. They've settled for humidity when they only wanted heat.