the lovedrunk cowgirl

corre contra la corriente

llora con el viento

esperame en la entrada del cielo-

donde se parten las nubes 

y se enciende el tiempo

there are parts of me that hide

beneath dusty halos-

the parts that begin when my love ends.

of all the things I’ve killed and resurrected-

her memory was the one 

that survived the wreckage.

if she is the answer,

if my chest holds the key

I’ll sharpen blades for her

to count my ribs and

anchor my feet 

I’m twenty-eight years old

bound between minutes and miles.

she’s a few years older 

holding the universe together 

between glasses of tequila 

and her half-drawn smile.

we’re drunk in her favorite city-

she’s falls up the stairs 

and I bleed from my knees.

she licks her thumb and presses it 

over the torn-up part of me.

I promise myself to stay clumsy

if I can wear her hand 

like a bandage on my thighs.

I promise myself to stay dizzied

by the stories she hides

behind golden eyes. 

I set a fire with my hands tied

and no one was there to see it.

I bit off my own tongue

and no one believed it.

bury this sacrifice.

pray for something light.  

this the seed of everything

this is where wrongs turn right.

I watched you through boiling tears 

in my dream last night.

blood dripped from my hands

and I tried to be polite.

you stood in front of me shaking-

hair wet, dressed in white.

you’re too sacred to hold

and I’m too broken to fight. 

she looks at me like I’m a memory

and she traces me with drowning eyes.

I am twenty-seven in her passenger seat,

carving scripture into my thighs.

she kisses the scar on my forehead 

and speaks my name to the moon

to venerate the parts of me 

that were born too old and died too soon.

I light the joint she rolled for me

and we get high on borrowed time.

I told her when she met me 

that my dreams have a way of turning love into lies.

through the things that keep me breathing

and the violence that I’m feeding,

there are few gods that I believe in-

the tears that she cries

and all of her demons.

the sounds she made last night 

still echo in the ether.

she told me she’d been waiting on me

for the last two winters.

her call distracted my healing. 

her voice broke my breathing.

I wonder if she could feel me

getting lost in her city.

I’ve been hunting down a moment

that could make my sadness filling. 

I threw my map in the fire 

and prayed my way to black hair and green eyes.

I knocked on a red door and offered wine

for the kind of redemption 

that can only be found 

in familiar neighborhoods

and in the arch of her spine. 

I’ve never walked a bridge 

that I couldn’t burn,

I’ve never met an angel 

that I couldn’t turn.

and if I’m honest 

I’m scared 

that the only magic left in me

is the kind that lingers 

in morgues 

and under floorboards.

the devil on my shoulder 

keeps slamming untouched doors 

she makes me scared to love again

and to look in the mirror after four.

I’ll find a way to cope with it

as long as nothing is coaxing it. 

there are rings of salt around my bed

for the godless thoughts circling my head. 

I’ll resurrect myself every morning 

with love songs and scary stories

and in between them 

I’ll whisper your name

over the coffee I’m pouring. 

tonight at dinner 

I asked for tea instead of gin.

I traded in 4 am and cocaine

for weed and the taste of your pain.

in my dream I felt myself holding you

I jolted awake

and shattered the last glass

that your lips were molded to. 

I smiled as my finger bled.

I cleaned the floor and made the bed. 

you tell me that I’m restless,

you can feel that I am reckless.

but for the first time ever 

I’ve found a quiet place to stay.

I would cut my hands

with every broken piece of you

just to bleed for something 

that doesn’t numb me

or keep me awake. 

I wear your lipstick

on me like a bruise.

not to say that it hurts, 

just to show that I

fought myself for you.

I told you last night 

when everything changed

that you could take my heart 

and I would take the blame.

some things feel good 

when they aren’t supposed to.

but what am I supposed to say 

when your eyes haunt me that way? 

you chase ghosts and I do too

except the ones I want 

have heartbeats and tattoos.

last night 

I stared at you 

under the red light.

you watched the show 

and I watched your every move. 

I keep finding heaven 

in places where the bible 

told me not to look. 

who am I,

if not a slave 

to beauty,

illusion,

and stolen books?