I guess I gave up literature when I met you.

I started writing shitty teen poems

about e-cigs and your mouth on mine,

and your hands on my body,

though I knew damn well you'd never touch me.

I'm far too good at bolting

and slicing up bridges,

this body: repulsive, disgusting, revolting.

and I knew damn well I'd never love you

the same.

My metaphors dissolved,

and my knowledge of this language.

These days, I'm not fluent

in _anything._

He tells me I was pretty

when my hair reached my waist.

_You used to write so beautifully._

Sorry I killed the only part of me

you ever thought worth loving.

I'm sorry

my rhythm's always off.

I can't hear over the landmines.

We always crash—

I'm sorry if you hate the new road signs.

I don't want to feel

your skin on my lips.

You toss me a bottle;

I can't take a sip.

I'm sorry for every last text I ignored,

and for the words I'm about to say.

Say, not write,

for you scraped all the poetry out of me,

leaving only peel and rind.

Only know there is nothing left of me to leech,

though I wish I could grow you an orchard.

I cannot keep pretending to like

the marks you tore through me with your teeth.

I hope the next one you break into the garden for

is sweeter than you ever imagined.

But me?

I want my quill back.

Soon, I will not be bitter.