I’m sure the poets would be able to find something beautiful in the way my body still hurts where you touched it, but at the present I must leave poetry behind, for my body still hurts where you touched it.

     But that’s not like me, is it?

     No, I have never been known to abandon the poetic in my times of most dramatic heartache and pain. I have never been able to sit with the discomfort, the embarrassment, the fear, the shame, without converting every passing thought into art.

     Pages and pages and pages sprawl out from my fingers, a swirling mess of never-ending, gut-wrenching thoughts collected and neutralized by a distressed notebook and a blue mechanical pencil. This is my art.

     It is the only art I have ever truly succeeded at and the very same art my mind seeks to destroy after the Feeling is done.

     I long to tear out these pages as I wish to throw out this body as you wished to tear off my clothes and I let you.




     Each of these words digs a knife deeper into the body into the heart into the throat that still runs dry with the taste of your name that I cannot bring myself to say. And with each word that seeks to pass through these chapped and bruising lips I can feel the effort to scream bubbling over so I swallow it down and will my hands to write faster, words slurring and smudging in the furious effort to evade the inevitable overflow.

     And as everything I am avalanches through my palms I collapse in on myself. 

     I cannot decide if I want to crawl into anybody’s arms or never be touched again, unsure if I want to talk it out or never see you again.

     I miss being lovesick. Now I’m just nauseous.

M is a first-year psychology and gender and sexuality studies student. They thrive off of sunlight and oversharing and would like to remind you to drink some water, unclench your jaw, and text somebody ‘i love you’ for no reason at all.