bon appétit

it takes me a long time to answer,

because I take time to taste the words

at first they come burning up my throat,

like bile, like yesterday's food,

and crash against my teeth

do my eyes bulge,

with the effort it takes to keep them behind pressed lips?

I will hang on to them for another moment

rearrange them with my tongue

(just like tying cherry stems,

I taught you how to do that, once upon a time)

they'll clack against my teeth

until I open my mouth-

but I'll rethink the sentence

swallow it down hard

watch carefully for the word "unbelievable,"

you'll see how it takes effort to keep down

maybe I'll cough, shift in my chair, while

the word "waiting" settles itself in your mouth

you'll savor it, decide whether it's worth saying

while I dislodge "cruel" from my windpipe.

a bitter tasting word,

and I want to spit it out.

I wonder what you were craving

maybe I'll just go for something simple, bold-

"I hate you"

but no, I want this flavor to last

something that will distort the taste of food

hours later

so something spicier, maybe

"I fucking hate you"

(you taught me that word, once upon a time)

that'll work, right?

I bet you were expecting sugar,

accepting your apology with a smile

I can feel that taste,

sticky, sickly sweet, crawling up

no doubt that'd be a treat to you

but all the witticisms seem to spoil on my tongue

I taste salt

axis

pulling each other though the dark

hand on the curve of a hip,

the swell of a shoulder,

every which way as the sidewalk spins

I try to remember how to say ‘tectonic’

because it’s an earthquake,

us spilling out on the pavement

something about the shifting

in my stomach;

and my ankles rolling as I fall back,

because you shriek

don’t step on the cracks,

something about backs but I’m laughing

heaving and hard;

and the heaviness of my head,

pressed against your chest

aftershocks when your hands reach

needing balance and finding

my cheeks, breasts, elbow,

tickling, curious, and I smile

when they brush my lips,

and my world is crumbling down

you didn't need to tell me how good she tasted

her mouth was minty and fruity 

and kind of sweet 

all at the same time, yeah, I know

the secret's in her gum, you probably didn't see

she spat it out right before she turned to you,

looked up through her eyelashes,

(the most important part of seduction:

eyelash batting constantly

it is fucking key)

and you were done for-

yeah, I know, I knew before you did

that her eyes change green and grey

when she looks at you that way it's just

mesmerizing, right?

right- that's her good side, the one

with the beauty mark, (but not really,

it's just a mole. it's probably 

cancerous. whatever.) so she makes sure

that you're looking right at it, thinking

what an endearing flaw you have

all the better to eat you with,

my dear.

so you don't need to tell me

and you don't need to apologize

for enjoying it

breakfast

we joked with the doctor in the ER

about the Disney wallpaper and the stupid

soap operas, the only thing 

on at three in the 

morning

it didn't feel like morning,

like waking up

like waiting with my sister to see the sun rise

or like chocolate chip waffles, Lucky Charms

it felt like running on adrenaline and gross,

because I hadn't showered yet,

and realizing my sweater was on inside out because

we'd left so quickly, Dad had been so worried

I made a face when they pricked my finger

and at the charcoal drink

complained that it was nasty, 

chalky-sweet stuff, 

though it might be saving my life

(no one mentioned that last part;

or that I had no right to complain about taste

when I'd managed to swallow 20 Excedrin tablets

with no trouble

no one said, "well, at least you got here quickly;

some people need an IV of this stuff,

need their stomach pumped,

you're one of the ones we can fix easily

with just a drink to absorb all the bad

and a few years of therapy"

the nurses just laughed politely 

at how it turned my teeth black.

I smiled dark and gross at them.)

there are glances, and there are stares, and then there's what you and I do, which I guess is what you'd call glimpses. I don't see you, I see the color of your hair, the pens I hated and would never deign to borrow from you (no matter how much I needed one) and I see the sneakers that you wore the night I got too drunk and spent most of my night on your bathroom floor.

do all of these things belong exclusively to you? other people own red Converse, Sharpie pens, have that shade of blacker-than-black hair, and yet this particular collection of associations is all that I have of you. I have the particular way the bass of your voice thrums underneath everyone else's conversations, I've kept the scar on the back of your right hand, and somewhere very deep I've locked away your mint taste.

sometimes I wonder if you see me in blue eyes, bright orange backpacks, permanent marker tattoos. the burn on the collar of my favorite shirt, because it was dark and you went to light my cigarette and missed. I shrieked and you laughed but it was scary so I shoved you for being such a dickhead and-

I've put all that away too. the shirt in the back of my closet and the rest of the cigarettes I stole from you in the bottom of my trash can (until I can throw them away without my parents seeing) and most especially I have locked away the words we, us, together.