I think you wanted it to hurt. I think you liked the thought of me, knotted up with jealousy, chained by hashtags half-written to open up the skin and drag out insecurities. You saw my body deserving of a few small cuts, because I didn’t give you enough proof that I gave a fuck… It…

Yes, please.

I want to run my tongue along your crooked teeth, bite your lips, feel you breathe. And if you want a piece of me, all you have to do is ask.


I’m morbidly fascinated with edges. The edges of blades, glinting and indifferent. The edges of rooftops, sudden and unforgiving. The edges that separate me from another, the invisible lines and definitions of our relationships, the tangible ridges of our clothes.