After Francine J. Harris
You say I love yous in knuckles, a language no one knows, unless they’ve been dragged across concrete. Face down. Salt in my good eye. I know where the sidewalk ends. Bitch. Nothing here but the leaving, if only the leaving got good. Gets better with time, and pressure. Boot across the neck kind of pressure, the type you never forget but want to forgive because deep down you know it’s you pulling roof from tongue. Leave that devil-man behind.
I’m Bird of Paradise orange and blue; proud—not wilted and weak. I’m good at the leaving, like a freight train down the track—no looking back. Can’t slow this bitch down. I see spilt knuckles and split eyes. Split like my thighs. I don’t need pity. Open your mouth and I’ll split it. Split it until teeth fall out—filled with the taste of chipped concrete. I know what you know—nothing is promised. If I want out, I get it.
Jessica Blandford’s most recent chapbook, Letters for Dead Lovers, is available now through Bottlecap Press. Follow her on Instagram: @jessy.blandford or Twitter: @Jess_Blandford