your hands are not gentle on me,
and the bruises stay with me for days, a love note
of violence and need. you don’t call, i stare at the phone
in my hands for twenty minutes and my palm is pressed
to the aching spot on my neck (you drew blood, a tattoo of
marks across the surface and i am scarred, marked, owned)

when i press the numbers finally,
i listen to it ring twice and you pick up,
you wrap me in laughter and unpolished lies.

your fingerprints are spraying addiction across my skin
like any new cliché, heroin & coke dripping down my throat and
my teeth are on your shoulder, we curl around each other
like badly made paper flowers, crayola colored and
crumbled from re-folding.

(i forget that i never wanted you to touch me)