you'll find the rest of my bones in the graveyard

trust is like a two-person tug of war and
you are a piece of gum, chewed then spat out.
trust should work like a traffic light.

what do you do when you start seeing his
hands in the form of bruises?  when he stops
communicating unless it's in the form of alcoholic tang,
letters written on your tongue with his?
what do you do when the cold you start to feel doesn't
come from the outside, but in, and his body heat cannot
seep into your bones?
you bleach your hair and paint makeup over your
skin and try to become the kind of girl you never were.
you trust him until the red staining his lips isn't your own blood but
lipstick.  you trust him even when he leaves in the morning.

the name in his phone book is call girl,
make me feel good girl,
make me feel so much larger than I am girl.
your number is scribbled under it.
there are strands of bleach-blonde hair caught between the pages.
love is a two way street.  you can't take what
there isn't left to give.

he takes away portions of your heart and
you don't even notice.  you don't notice until he suddenly
rips the whole thing from your chest, your ribs cracking,
leaving a crater in your blood vessels and
you cannot breathe.
a year later, when you ask to have it back,
he's already eaten it.

red lipstick stains his incisors.