A.

I wear this ring like it’s made of water, I capsized in her dark a long time past but the sink or swim I carved through the lines of my palms pressed me to dry ground. The Chicago River flows through my throat, the dead bodies at the bottom are where I drowned the “I love yous” in their sleep. I was the Mississippi once before you damned me up. Do you still smell like rain clouds? I miss how you shone in the afterglow, I miss how you cried so I would stop yelling and stop the silence and stay, I don’t miss throwing up in the shower. I came clean. I never thought a drought so lovely, but the sun stroke feels like flying and my breath is not so damp to encourage coughing up your name. You kill me on my tongue, you know, but I never cared before so who can blame the denial. I miss almost every night but I can’t ever go back again, it was the tide that killed me, my body is broken rocks some days. My collarbone is the shoreline, recede from me, I got these property damages, the property of damaging a life dam near washed me away. I am wet inside, I am some large percentage water, some smaller percentage a belief in the current. This is your rainstorm love song, this is a water-pail reminder of the broken shells I walked on for you; keep your crocodile tears, I have a shipyard wreck inside, and that is more beautiful to me now than ever before.

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