#but yeah i mean uhhhh death of the author actually this poem is about whomever u were thinking about

[inkskinned]

it's not always going to make sense, and it's going to be hard, and the way that you feel her push through your ribs will make the rest of you ravenous. you will be standing in your tiny kitchen looking down at your feet and the loneliness will spray in buckshot over your whole life until you are a crimescene and you will still have to remember to get groceries. you will think about her hair, the wheat, how she has stained your life in yellow, and how before her you were almost-happy but now somehow you are starving. you will think of her weight in your hands and over your skin and her impossible grin. you will want to force your entire fist into your hand and bite down, but you won't, because you're an adult, and you only cry at funerals. so much of her reminds you of fire; the shock of her hair and the swordblade of her laughter - so you sigh and drink water instead. you have emails to send around the shape of her. you have chores to do that avoid remembering the last time she held you. you have to take the trash out and avoid the sensation that she is hanging in the air, all that desire in the back of your throat. you will have to apologize to your dog. i promise. i'm trying. the way you want her is almost reverent, an amber crescent. she has annexed the whole apartment, has made her way under your fingernails. and yet you still have to pay rent. you still have to pay bills.