There is a girl standing in your kitchen with her hands placed beneath the faucet washing the blood off of her arms. You ask her why her body lets in so much violence and she asks you if you want to place a bet on how long it will take until you stop loving her. She plants I'm sorry kisses on your shoulder and swallows her tongue every time memories crawl back up her throat. Your white bed sheets were made for her body to mold into, for you to look down and see how pretty monsters can be. You tell yourself she is worth going to war for but you really mean against because her fingers rest on the trigger of a loaded gun she keeps as her exit strategy. That summer your mouth tasted like cheap wine and her strawberry lip gloss. And every new pair of lips you rest yourself on now tastes exactly the same and you can't figure out why. Years later you realize you didn't forget how to breathe, but that she took up all the air in the room.
