Broken.heart.face.odd

Who am I kidding? The kissing was misplaced passionfruit toxic juice spilling its milk all over the floor, so premature. So ripe. So not right. The stubble you rub with a razor smooth like the edges of your teeth when you don’t smile to me. Behind your lips, the hum of the bees moved from your knees to our grieves. Gray like your eyes. Could never convince me otherwise. And your throat, like your thighs, were touched with lie-lie-lies. Three times a day if we wanted. So odd what a break-up can make you say? Isn’t it my dear? Is.nt.it.my.dear? And we’re still just tongue deep in your ear, my words…

-for the Scandinavian wielding hammer to heart.