What they don't teach you in school
Blue skin tapered to the backs of hands lined with raw emotion,
The winds fingers wrapped around throats, selfish, craving more air than it could hold.
I heard the wildflowers beneath your breath fall onto my knees as I brushed away the sleep from my eyes,
I dreamt of your skin like freckles of sunlight creating forest fires against my spine,
my voice cracked like sparklers on the Fourth of July,
But still I asked you,
To come home.
Sailboats floating through the oceans under our veins carrying waves I thought I had drowned; resting, on the tips of our tongues.
Do you remember
the color of my veins when I ripped open my skin for you,
or how I bit down on the moons wrists until her
breath tasted of my own;
Or how I swallowed the sky for you?
Volcanoes erupting under every vein in my body, the sky in my chest melting stars all down my spine
my bones, drenched in the color of the moons hands as they shook beneath my words
I, am a voicebox,
That has forgotten how to speak.
I bit down on the last day of September until her blood painted my teeth with whatever it was I was searching for,
I cracked her bones like my own knuckles until they were small enough to fit inside my body again.
What they teach you in school is how to remember a thousand dates that mark the days our soldiers died, what they teach you in school is how to subtract the numbers from one another but not how to subtract you from me,
They do not teach you how to let go when something is no longer yours to keep, they do not teach you, in school, how to walk when your legs are melting into puddles beneath you, or how to speak when you feel like your tongue is wrapped around your throat they do not teach you–
they did not teach me,
How to sit on the floor with my head bowed and hands like kites tied behind my neck,
They did not teach me,
How to stop myself, from breaking my bones so that I could hold onto you they did not teach me,
how to lose you.
They did not teach me, what it would feel like.
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