She sounded like church bells By Jade Ball
The kind I hadn’t heard since I was a child, wrapped in innocence. Hidden in her unholy perfume and sin. Her eyes were so big they swallowed mine and each cell on the surface of my body, like it was design. Bleach blonde, then pastel pink. She let me brush her hair, cut it. Over cracked porcelain and cheap wine, we wrote poetry together. Bundled in my bed, or hers. What it means to fall in love, with each other, with your best friend.
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She made words into diamond rings just to give them to me. When she etched forever into the cracks of my spine with the sharp scratch of her fingernails, I let her. I don’t know how to clean her blood from my bones. It dried there. Between my left ventricle and my right one. I would have loved every moment of her, unconditionally. Through tears on the bathroom floor. Twice. Makeshift therapy and pain. Until the fog started to lift.