orientation

We’re still friends, right? You ask, letting the death knell ring. Your body was my battlefield The curves of your waist drew me in, made me cling, Like a fly to rotting, raw, marbled meat, to a crumbling caricature I am the silver links in the chain of the necklace you bought me- perfectly in place into a definition I’ve memorized, my psalm, For what I’ve killed and buried, what I’ve tried to erase so I no longer had to think of the fullness of your lips, your fragile hips beneath my kiss. You ask me again, who you begged, who prodded, and who now selfishly thinks a half-assed apology resolves the way you handled the strings you had me on, your little marionette, three months of silence, and an anthology of hurts, of the knowledge I’ve gained in the facts of your figure.