it’s a lot like drowning — 
the realization that
no matter what i do,
he’s never going
to want me
the way he does her.

when my mother turned sixteen years
young
young
young
she fell in love with a man
who only wanted her body
and disposed of her heart and soul
when he found them latched to his skin —
said he couldn’t feed another with his love
because he lost that
ability
months before.

he gave all he could give
to a girl who was my mother’s polar opposite,
and when he lost her:
he suffocated.

you planted daisies in my chest —
told me that when they bloomed for you,
you’d show me how
utterly
beautiful
i really am,

but when you stopped watering the garden
of eden that sprouted
between my ribs,
Adam stabbed Eve
and she bled out —
left for nothing by the man
who she was created from.

last month i turned nineteen years
old
old
old —
three years more knowledge
and far more experience —
and we both know i’m really nothing like my mother,
and religion has never been prominent
in my will to survive,
but when you kiss me on your couch at
3 in the morning,
your hand sliding down to rest in mine,
i know that my breath
won’t last long
if your other hand
keeps twisting the knife.

 

ple