you are drunkenly sucking on my collarbones.
your father is at home breaking your brother’s jaw with his fist and stitching your mother’s mouth shut with ever fiery stare he pierces through her.
your mother kicked you out the night she caught you with your hands intertwined in my hair and me hungrily inhaling you, i was in love, she didn’t like that.
so she kicked you out and you moved in with Indira and shaved you hair and quit smoking and quit me.
you started making promises and tried to sew up wounds.
i ran into your mother at costco, she had adopted the same fiery stare as your father and it burned holes through me as she barricaded my cart with hers and she told me she would never forgive me for taking her daughter away and she would never step off my neck till she got you back.
she couldn’t get you back, you had made promises and opened new pages, neither i or your mother were written in those pages.
you are now in nevada.
your hair is at the nape of your neck and yes, you’ve broken some promises that you made to yourself (you started calling again) but you haven’t turned to salt yet, you grew 3 inches, you don’t hide behind your hands anymore and some of the wounds your father made are just blurry scars now, you wear them like armor.
i learned how to eat a grapefruit with a spoon.
i now treat myself like a work of art, carefully made brush strokes of brown an gold and deep orange across my skin.
the dark brown strokes on my collarbones and shoulder blades still smell like you.