all is bright

I wake up with darlin’ looking bruises all over my body
“what do you do to yourself?”
she asks,
and I tell her I don’t know,
“I wake up with darlin’ looking bruises all over my body,”
but she’s more abusive than me,
with all the cross hatching
and the stitching,
and down 
her arms

she gives me her father’s sunglasses,
“80s,” she says,
I wear them until they break,
and I give her my Wal Mart glasses in return

she laughs so shrilly,
and I am not that funny,
and I check my watch
too much
when I'm with her,

but the arm graze
the hand grab,
and the, "I just want to kiss you
whenever I see you," 
it strangles us both,

and we sign our lives away
on tattoos
we’ll both regret

“you’re so young,”
she decides,
as if I am aging
and she is the hag
with warts
on her face
and pigeons
at her feet

“I’m terrified of 30,”
she says,
“it scares me,
I'll be 30 before you,"
her voice is tumorous,
but she is more terrified to hear
that I don't care

she yells at me for hours,
and the only resolution we can find
is in the bedroom,
but the shouting only gets louder

“give me a kiss,”
she says,
in her maternal tone,
and I lean in
and kiss her 

and it is the next morning,
it is the last kiss,
and she says,
“see you never,”
I laugh,
and I hope so,
I hope we both go it alone,

but we stick it out,
and she looks at me
like I am some sort of
stigmatic epithet,
some abnormality
she can't offset,

and the yelling
gets worse, and
I shed years 
of youth
with each eardrum blow,
and I return to the womb,
where the bedroom shouting
plays out too cool, 
where I am wrapped 
in your sooty hair

where it is mellifluous
and static,
where it is like drowning
in the mid-morning air