you sit with him
at the edge of the water; it slaps the concrete below
warning you, a wheezing half dead thing in his lap.
you tell him you’re scared of falling again.
the moon a sliver of bone in your eyes.
your skull a cracked eggshell.
your ribcage a vase. baby’s breath and roses wilt
inside—a bouquet from your week old bae.
he wraps his arms around you like you are
the last girl to ever be fooled by a fuqboi on earth.
he kisses you like he needs you.
he fingers your cotton hair.
says, let me take care of you
he replaces the dead bouquet with
a fist of honeysuckle weed.
then he drops you.
Amber Taylor is a poet and non fiction writer from Columbus, Ohio. Her work has appeared in The Blueshift Journal, Rigorous, and Rogue Agent Journal. She loves Steven Universe, grilled cheese dipped in maple syrup, and her 2017 VONA family.