Bad habits
S.
She always rubs her mouth,
like there’s a secret she can’t say out loud.
Tracing her own lips to prevent a smile, a frown, or a tear.
Sometimes her real smile peeks through, but you can only see it in her squinted almond eyes; dark amber, and soft, just like that bashful grin.
Sometimes a frown shows when no one is looking, followed by a wistful sigh and a simple wipe of the palm across that silent mouth, trying to push the bad feelings and words away.
Sometimes tears roll past her knuckles; she fails to catch them at the source because she’s scared to wipe her eyes raw, so she brushes them away after they’ve fallen in the crook of her pink lips.
She always hides her mouth,
as if she’s afraid to speak.
M.
She never faces you completely,
like you’re not worth her full attention.
Averting her cold gaze, she walks with a haughty, empty stride.
Even if she gives you the courtesy of her pretty face, full-on and uninterrupted, one foot is always pointing away, ready to run at a moment’s notice.
Even though she nestles against a warm body, she thinks of another place, another time, another’s breath. She doesn’t make idle chatter because there’s nothing to talk about; so she sighs.
She never faces anyone completely,
as if there’s something she’s ashamed of.
L.
She’s always tugging her fingers,
like a child wanting attention.
Fiddling bashfully with her manicure, she watches for any eyes on her.
Her nails are always decorated with playful but detailed strokes. She makes sure to fix them every two or three days so they’re always pretty like her smile.
Her bottom lip tastes like artificial strawberry; she knows she shouldn’t chew, but the nervous habit sneaks in whenever she looks at a turned back and feels the loneliness creep up.
Her knuckles pop slightly when she pulls them and she hates the feeling; her mom says it’s bad for her, and it leaves an ache in her hand and her heart.
She’s always tugging her fingers,
as if she’ll get left behind.
J.
She can’t stop smoking,
like she can’t breathe without it.
Inhaling the sweet, burning ash into her lungs.
The fumes taste like candy and envelop her nostrils and her mind; she can think clearly now, breathe easy now, because air feels too thin in comparison.
The fumes sneak into her heart, and her chest erupts with fire; a fire that sears instead of glows, that strikes instead of soothes, and all the memories spill out like smog from her mouth.
The fumes settle and she sees ashes and loose blonde hairs at her feet; she cries because it’s an addiction she can’t curb.
She can’t stop smoking,
as if she’s trying to suffocate.
“"
Do not fall in love
With people like me.
people like me
will love you so hard
that you turn into stone
into a statue where people
come to marvel at how long
it must have taken to carve
that faraway look into your eyes
Do not fall in love with people like me
we will take you to
museums and parks
and monuments
and kiss you in every beautiful
place so that you can
never go back to them
without tasting us
like blood in your mouth
Do not come any closer.
people like me
are bombs
when our time is up
we will splatter loss
all over your walls
in angry colors
that make you wish
your doorway never
learned our name
do not fall in love
with people like me.
with the lonely ones
we will forget our own names
if it means learning yours
we will make you think
hurricanes are gentle
that pain is a gift
you will get lost
in the desperation
in the longing for something
that is always reaching
but never able to hold
do not fall in love
with people like me.
we will destroy your
apartment
we will throw apologies at you
that shatter on the floor
and cut your feet
we will never learn
how to be soft
we will leave.
we always do.
"
