TRIGGER WARNING: DRUG USE (COCAINE), TRAUMA REFERENCE, ABUSE / SEXUAL ABUSE
All I know is do coke, trauma bomb and lie; where’s the fucking lighter, sweetness – where’s the fucking lighter – pace the space between the couch and the kitchen, think about What He Did, cut lines and cry; menthol cigarettes for extra fiberglass and extra flavor, Marlboro Reds for the memory; my eighteenth birthday, my bad tattoos, my body underneath yours in a foreign bed – I’m a party girl now, you can’t kill me – I don’t know who that girl is, the girl who; begged for you to cum inside her, who the fuck do I look like: someone who wants to bear your cursed children (all of your children will be born under a full moon, all of your children will be Geminis); I am incapable of raising children, now, I cannot mother – don’t talk about my mother – shift your weight, the uneven structure of the castles you’ve built on your shoulders; empires fall; Shimmer, baby boy keep shining, you; can’t kill me – Catch a glimpse of a cocaine sunrise, nose bleed, quick fuck with a friend; I wish he was you sometimes but I don’t; know her either.
Tessah Melamed is a writer from New Jersey. She enjoys bad and beautiful things. Tessah has been previously published in Crooked Arrow Press, Trampset, As It Ought to Be Magazine and Soup Can Magazine. For her upcoming project, she is currently exploring intimacy and problematic men. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @_wherestessah.