Toxic

I'd bury my face in your shirt
and mumble something
about that way too expensive,
bottle of whiskey you bought, back then,
back when you were miserable,
back when my fingers hadn't counted
the bumps of your spine yet,
back when you didn't know the softness
of my breasts and the way we wouldn't stop
once we'd start kissing.

I didn't want you to touch such a toxic again,
it reminded me of wandering to the supermarket
with a lack of conversation.
I've only ever kissed a bottle at the age of 19
and didn't know how home could be
something other than a still life;
something else than a silhouette of me
pulling my hair, scratching my thighs
against the black and white backdrop of alcohol.

For if I didn't have life,
at least I'd have art.

We extracted the toxic from each other
as our tongues collided, skin ignited,
but nowadays I think I might have
kissed you too much, becoming the very toxic
I didn't want you to touch. My moods are liquid
and my body keeps changing containers.
Today I'm in the mountains and tomorrow
I'm at the beach photographing seagulls,
but at the end of the day I am always
curled up in my bed, clutching at my skin again,
begging you to dedicate your time to me
and only me with my suicidal tendencies.

I am the very toxic I didn't want you to touch
and even when my hands are hidden in sleeves
or my eyes cast away, I can't help but feel
like a siren in your presence.
I imagine you staring out at the sea like me,
heart reacting to the thrill of being loved,
but I'm starting to wonder if I truly loved you,
why did I appear in front of you with tattered wings.
why did I claw onto your hands, why
why, why did I become Toxic.

04/11/2015
9:50 PM