I texted you
at 12:30 a.m.
with a beer can on my bedside table,
asked you
if you remember
how my lips taste,
told you
it's been a while
since anyone's touched me
like you used to,
added
haha, I love you
to texts that
didn't quite make sense;

I asked for it.

That's what I keep
telling myself.
It's not ****
if I gave consent,
it's not ****
if you didn't touch me,
it's not ****
if I said yes when
you offered to make me less lonely.

I remember when
that boy you were always jealous of
told me he loved me,
I remember wanting to say it back,
I remember the smell of
my mom's *****
on his breath.

I said no.
Took his arm off my shoulder,
turned my head away,
told him not to kiss me,
told him not tonight,
told him he was drunk,
he was lying to himself,
he was just lonely,
he would not love me
in the morning.

I was right.
He told me
the last thing he remembered
was sitting down next to me,
he said
sorry if I tried anything,
I said he didn't.

My point is,

the boy I loved,
longed for,
still long for,
was giving himself to me,
his flushed cheek on my shoulder,
his hands in my hair,
my name on his lips,
and I said no.

My point is,

I, whom you knew to be vulnerable,
to be empty,
to be broken,
was begging you to save me,
my desire on your phone screen,
my scars in your memories,
my cries echoing in your eardrums,
and you asked for more.

My point is,

there comes a point
in every person's life
when they are given the choice
to do the right thing,
or do the wrong thing
and convince them self
it was the only option.

My point is,

I could have been
at your doorstep,
in your bedroom,
begging,
pleading,
naked,
ready,
and the right answer
still would have been
no.

My point is,

you did not **** me,
but you made me feel violated.
You are not a *** offender,
but you are an awful person.
I did say yes,
but you should have said no.

My point is,

I may have asked for it,
but that doesn't mean
you should've given it to me.

i found salvation in the
molten crown
at the end of a cigarette.

salvation walked barefoot
on its pilgrimage to me
through twenty-one years
of scars—
it walked through my grandmother’s
lungs,
scorching them black,
and through my mother’s
cancerous and toxic
trachea.

it walked through
a thousand anti-tobacco ads,
nondisclosure agreements,
hospital wards,
my father’s own clenched fists,
and soft yellow stains on discarded
funereal vestments.

it found me after all that,
waiting patiently
for a way to **** myself
slowly,
something that mixed well with alcohol,
and would leave me
bitterly satisfied with the semblance
of poetic justice.

Death or deterioration
Which is more painful to see?
To watch a candle melt away
Into a puddle of itself
Or to wake up one day and the flame be gone.

Death or deterioration
Which is more painful to see?
To know the storm is coming
And live in endless cloudy days
Or to wake up during a flood that washed your loved one away.

Death or deterioration
Which is more painful to see?
To know the Reaper is coming
And live in constant fear
Or to wake to the smell of sulfur that let's you know he's been there.

Death or deterioration
I don't know which I'd choose
Because no matter which fight you fight
In the end you're still gonna lose.