[*sparkles*]

 I’m always drawn to
psychos and songs in minor keys,
and the way that wet things shine.

Spend my days stuffing
memories of you in some
tiny little box labeled “Pain,”

[pieces like confetti]

leave it on the shelf collecting dust
until some rainy day when I’m
feeling masochistic.

I think I’m allergic to thinking of you,
and scratching, dig a hole,
picking at a scab that isn’t there.

I feel disfigured,
twisted,
tied in knots that turn my stomach,

I’m wrapped around
[the memory of the ring around]
your finger,
and caught in thoughts like,
“Does he think of me?”

And I feel sick,
disgusted,
that I cling to things like this,
picking up
broken glass with my bare hands
just because it sparkles.