133.

things like purple lilies on my hips
like the words that died behind my teeth
or the words I wish I'd killed
instead of arranging them into floral wreaths
and handing them over
like naivety at 19
things I can't get back
like the knots in my back
from twelve months back, when I was
not strong enough to push him off
or busted fingernails white-gripped
on roller coaster handlebars
just to feel Texas heat punch me in the face
things like that, or like
bleached-out snapped-off sunrises
washed less than blue through tree branches
like seeing them through half a window
things I've buried
that keep pushing upward through the soil
air-starved and crazy
like staying awake instead
and not being sorry
remembering things like that.