a bullseye: the love-bite blooms gorgeously. ferociously.

dear mother, i’m writing to tell you that i’m in love with so many people at once but god forbid these people love anyone other than me. this flower of omission, it’s staring me in the face. taunting me, making me the bitter child. dear mother, i’m in love with affirmations and every pretty-pretty word is eating me alive.

so i do a terrible thing: i make lovers plait my hair and tie a ribbon at the end. eating the spoonfuls of butter that you shovel into my mouth. i let you do it—do you see my mouth open for you? this is everything i’ve ever dreamt of. and in this little space in time, we’re two accidents sitting across from one another, asking what if and how did and where from but it’s all pointless because eventually the plait comes undone and if you asked me if i love you i would twist my spine and break my back.

break it into bite-sized chunks.

dear mother, i’m so tender and my neck is ready for the taking. i’m stark-naked, fist closed and wailing. if you said something it would make all this come apart but you just shovel butter into my mouth. this salty, this creamy goodness. dear mother, i’ll keep my mouth open wide. i’ll pass you another ribbon, another lock of hair and wait for the kill.