She sounded like church bells

By Jade Ball

The kind I hadn’t heard

since I was a child,

-

wrapped in innocence. Hidden in her unholy

perfume and sin.

-

Her eyes were so big

they swallowed mine

and each cell

on the surface

of my body,

like it was design.

-

Bleach blonde, then pastel pink.

She let me brush her hair,

cut it.

Over cracked

porcelain and cheap wine,

-

we wrote poetry together.

Bundled in my bed, or hers.

What it means to fall

in love, with each other,

with your best friend.

-

She made words

into diamond rings

just to give them to me.

-

When she etched forever

into the cracks of my spine

with the sharp scratch

of her fingernails,

I let her.

I don’t know how

to clean her blood

from my bones.

It dried there.

Between my left ventricle

and my right one.

I would have loved

every moment of her,

unconditionally.

Through tears

on the bathroom floor.

-

Twice.

-

Makeshift therapy

and pain.

-

Until the fog

started to lift.

-

She showed me

my worthlessness.

-

When she cut contact,

out of nowhere,

as if we were nothing between

pillow

and comforter.

-

Your tongue

cut me.

-

Its sharpness

mangled mine,

and you tore me

apart.