Beach Baby

two ativan later I still can't keep track of my breath. i watched it escape out of the window a minute ago skipping across the lawn to have late night fornications with the flower under my window. i look at my hair, let it slip down my neck from its ponytail, and run my fingers through it, still cold from the stale air in the car, and I can't figure out what to do with it so I cut it off and feed it to the cats across the street. a crazed smile cascades across his face, the edges of it playing in his hairline and twirling themselves into his thin blond follicles of hair. the wind from outside pushes in through the crack in the window, freezing my lips as it touches them. i peel the skin from my bottom lip, leaving it raw and red begging to be cradled. he kisses me and the blood drips from his chin and onto my chest, puddling in the dip in my collar bone. she's motioning from outside and her toes are digging into the ground as she stands on tip toes, scraping away years of dust and grime like a healer.

my body turns into water on the bed, every breath condensing me and every exhale separating the molecules until i lay clear and rippling across the bed. the dog drinks from where my stomach should be, lapping up the water like a deprived creature. i stood at the gate and let you kiss my forehead. my shirt bundled and hugged my back and the honeybees swarmed around my feet, helping me stay up. I make a four leaf clover with my tongue, feel my tongue go numb.