i remember the first time he told me i was pretty. you are a water lily he said delicate & ripe. your roots are muddy but you float in the water like birds float in the air & one day you’ll fly & you’ll meet the sun. (the sun watered my skin with light that morning. (i remember the mornings, before: blue skies—blue eyes, i wanted them so badly, so i bought blue things: blue scarves, blue lipstick, thick chains with blue pendants. (necklaces were like oceans: blue, glittering, deep; blue eyes—blue lies; they both hid secrets. (necklaces were kyanite wombs and my throat was the baby inside, umbilical noose of his fingertips lapping at my jaw. he told me i was blue, icy, creamy. i like cold girls who treat me wrong. (i remember the first time he told me i was hot. i was wearing my blue lipstick. (the last time: he was on top of me, his sweat sucking me dry, my lipstick dripping. he told me i was hot and i knew i was because he was inside me, oozing his fire into me, crystallizing me. don’t be shy smile for me why are you so blue? acidic folds of his pepper lips corroding mine, slippery plasma of his tongue torrefying mine. (i remember the faucets, after: the water left muddy burns as it peeled me into groaning strips of steam. (and i thought it might remember its own blueness. and i thought it might never forgive its own blueness.))))))))