what to make of your lips
pressed into a line? I’ve spent hours
hypothesizing, studying how they pulse,
how they are pursed, above me
your skin, unearthed from the mattress &
showered in tastelessness, gifting me a hug
I can’t seem to return. I see sparks, or
it used to be once, before the summer
we settled for a sultry simmer instead. between us
my profile, my flat silhouette, it all becomes a line
in your hands, two-dimensional, echoes
bouncing off the walls as you croon a lullaby
& i try to drown it out. you cry yourself
to sleep sometimes, you said, but it’s very rare
that it happens, the tears soaked up by your skin
like a quilt, your skin like a blanket I’ve sewn
myself, a strawberry shortcake, artificial, painted
and dyed to the shade I like, dressed up
in all my favorite clothes, six words I still they
tumble out love you like a song you know? like a half-
written tune puncturing my ears, hummingbirds
tearing open my skin, exposing the hurt laying
inside. I want to hold you but I can’t, I whisper,
I want to be finite as the bed I sleep in, pretend
it’ll always be there even though it won’t, &
we both know there’s something left behind,
something that tugs at your ankle so close
to oblivion, like a comet might come destroy
everything we’ve built together so we construct
a peace offering, a slaughter we paint on
the frames of our door hoping the goodbye
will pass over, that I could hold on
to your shadow for a day longer, praying
that the frayed fabric may last.
Sal likes to describe herself as a professional sluggard and occasional writer. She is a student at Princeton University by day and aspiring poet by night. Her work has been published in Canvas Literary Journal, The Rappahannock Review, and Yes Poetry, among others. Some of her previous gigs include tour guiding at an art gallery and making sad lo-fi ballads in her bedroom. She spends most of her free time sleeping and reading Anne Carson.