Stubborn Stains On Her Dress

I am falling on him. Like rain. Sunshine. Gods on graves. The world is a lie we tell ourselves. In patches of skin. The same bandages cover the wounds that once made them.

My choices are a garden thick with weeds. My choices are a poison nothing real can grow inside. So I draw in the flowers where I imagine they might've sprouted.

Pretending it's my fault because blaming them only makes we weaker. Pretending I remember what they said. The wisdom of skin is that it touches, but never tries to hold.

All those little wishes we let escape us when our gods are on hiatus.

Stains set in her dress. Punctuation for her thighs. Exclamation points on her vagina. Stories she'll tell to no one.