And it Goes On and We Go On

I want to be allergic to you like I'm allergic to zucchini. You're everyone and everywhere at once and the jactation at night never seems to stop because I can feel your hands on my skin, inbetween my thighs, hurting me and healing me all the time. There was a point in our timeline when I liked that, I liked the fighting and the punching and the bleeding; especially that time when I smashed the urn with your mother's ashes in it and danced on the loess. Remember? When you gave me a black eye and hit me in the face with that statuette on the glass table? It still has my blood on it.

The cleft in my lungs makes me feel empty and happy at the same time, it's like you took a spoon and ate a piece of me. Oh, how you would eat me, chew me up, and spit me out with froth dribbling down your chin; it felt so good. We are lovers when we want to be, friends when being 'friendly' is in season, and enemies that cannot be bounded by seams. Taking hospital trips together and bleeding together, trying to blame it on cliché gang violence and never on the papier-mâché foundation that our relationship rocks on.

We don't stand like a pyramid or a homestead or even that luxury condo that your dad handed down to you. We're like, an avalanche because it's cold and dangerous and we're cold and dangerous; I like how our feelings render into one another and how broken things are never fixed and I love everything about you. That's why I had to leave, your love made me prismatic but I need black and white and grey in my life, so you'd have a menthol and I'd drink a cup of black coffee and it'd start over again.