Untitled pt. 3

Some nights
I’ll wake with a sinking feeling in my chest —
remembering the ways you pushed my hands
further from my face and into your mattress
until I fell asleep,
the taste of cheap beer and soft words still
wandering across my lips.

It’s not fire in my bones or ice in my veins
that the other sad-eyed, moppy-haired boys
left for me to crumple over. It’s foggier,
swifter, muddier — the way mist lingers after downpour,

sweet smells of rain hanging in the air and
pooling in the soles of my chuck taylors,
stained with old poison.

My roses smell louder with leftover drops
of rain slipping off the edges of their petals,
and the wisps of leftover clouds shift from
mute grey to vibrant, blinding white.

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