You rest your face against mine,
and ask me what sadness tastes like.
So I help coax your parents into screaming
they hate you; wish you were never born.
We sneak out at midnight through your
second-story window, drawn like moths
to the hum of orange street lamps,
the rattle of every windowless van.
In the broken forest, we press our lips
against the rings of fresh tree stumps,
and the bones in our faces vibrate white
with the hum of ripping blades.
We kiss the homeless man beneath the overpass,
and it’s gritty like child abuse—
guilty wet sheets stuffed under the bed,
scars from his father’s leather belt.
You lap up the blood and bird bones
of miscarriage, weep for chapped nipples,
three hours of sleep—
what to do with a million unboxed diapers.
Spent, we wipe our mouths with funeral flowers,
bellies full of sadness.
You sigh and say it tastes like me.
Lilah Galvin is a graduate assistant at CMU teaching Freshman Composition. She enjoys reading, writing, kayaking, and sarcasm. She also has tattoos, so she's pretty okay.