When Your Traffic Lights Turn

I cannot remember if it was the flashing red light on my printer
or the bitter body-slaps on bathroom tiles
that told me
something was wrong.

My friends do not invite me to dinner
anymore, I want to tell them I am sorry
for tying their hair into knots around my fingers,
all I wanted to do
was feel like a child curled up and warm. I want to tell them
how it feels to have a heart explode
with passion but have no where to let the blast go
without causing an outbreak of bodies to drop
around me
but instead, I have another part of me unhook
and fake nails peel off. I want to ask them
for another chance, but my insides are paperweights
and cracking bones overlap my outlines.

My lungs cause earthquakes
and sometimes two blankets are not enough
to keep this chopped-tomato skin tucked in.

Chisels remind me of hearts, hacked open like old handbags
on clingy hallway floors that reminds me of a boy I once knew
with no ring finger, I want to thank him
for holding my dehydrated ribs in place for a while,
I want like to tell him that I am folding myself up
and squeezing through my pores
in an attempt to forget

him and there are not enough body bags
to bury this feeling.