i was eighteen.

the waves of my hair rush over you like salt, like peroxide in an open wound. my fingers, graceful in their movements across your eyelids. yours, clumsy and long, peel over me like a knife. getting buried by you was a fate too fearful to overcome, and that was what i went searching for with those big binoculars i had, those tall black boots i wore to trek through the grass of heartbreak and hole-filling and accountability. and i gorged my stomach out to fit you in, but i guess in all your glory you exploded inside of me, and out you came through that mouth of mine, and back in i was, back in my own natural desire for honesty. deny myself my basic human instinct because it isn't real. but this is who i am, all dread and grey pencil line lies, this does not hurt anyone but me. i am the child inside of you, i am the girl you kissed under the covers, i am the woman who's authority defies you. "the art of the woman is to make the man believe he is in control." the art of the woman is to burn down every city you've held in your hands.