This isn't what I want.
And of course, I did not forget,
I am so nauseous and writhing,
This diaphragm twists in, upwards, upwards until I can taste it.
I'm shaking it off.
Devoid and warmer, I don't make sense because I close your message three times before I finish reading. I can only splash my face so many times before I just start drinking. I've been tilting my head sideways above this sink for months.
You want to pull me closer, but your words feel like honey, it's been days and I'm still ripping them out of my hair. So, you put those arms around me, and my body feels like a weapon. I'm picturing this trigger, pink and tan and blonde, when I noticed my own fingertips on my thighs.
I honestly could.
I am angry, shoveling fistfuls of grass to wash out your taste. I dare fire ants to try it, the whole fucking colony could not possibly have enough.
Convulsing while I imagine your mouth over my nose, if I could just breathe in your wasted air, no more.
Giving love to you is some kind of torture.
Maya Elena Jackson is a female author and musician hailing from the Sonoran Desert. Her writing has most recently appeared in the third issue of OUT/CAST, in the Pen 2 Paper Creative Writing Contest, and was selected as one of the winners of the Hotel Congress 100 Year Anniversary Celebration.You can hear her spoken word pieces on her local Tucson, Arizona radio station KXCI, and catch her resting in the hot desert sun, most likely with her pets.