She looked like the kind of girl made for gutting.
You know the type.
The pretty blondes
whose ends are met
within six scenes of any subpar slasher flick.

Her hair was the color of hay
that made you want to light a match and smell smoke.
Her lips waxed and waned
with a complexion less like strawberries
and more like bruises,
eyes sunken deep
like drowned maiden's within her skull
round and unknowing
like a cracked baby dolls,
wet but not red
from tears or anticipation.

He was the kind of guy
who liked His girls more bruised than rosy
and wasn’t afraid to
“Put in the work”
to get them that way.
He was too hard and too old for a thing like Her
But things like Her
always seem to get caught that way.
Being trapped and tapped
by guys like Him
was a rite of passage
for girls-made-for-gutting.

It was late summer when they met,
July doling out blistering days
on shaking legs
and suffocating nights
on withered, worn arms.

She never questioned how He got into Her room.
years and years,
pages and pages
She was taught that romance
was supposed to be invasive.
It was meant to set
Her teeth on edge
so far She feared She may just
tumble off into nothingness.
It was meant to send
Her heart racing
like click clacking heels
down stone walkways
when the night felt
like a forced hug
and dead ends
made Her wish She was dead,
made Her wish She was at an end.

He told Her to be quiet
She was.
He told Her She was beautiful.
She was.
He told Her She was garbage
A rotting cesspool
A future snapshot to spoiling carnage
So She was.
She liked it.

Wisps of summer
were left
Wisps meant to be caught
and kept in kaleidoscoped jars
on bookshelves
and shoved between safe havens of diaries
and text messages between friends reading
“Can’t wait til next year!! xoxo”

To Her,
that summer was Her
lifeline and lifetime.
Summer took its last wobbly steps
and then it was gone
and so was He.

He went off to some college town
probably met another girl
with muddy hair this time,
hollowed cheeks
and blush like a bruise.

He left the-girl-made-for-gutting with bruises
bruises She still presses on
to feel alive,
and muttered lies to her mother
about being clumsier than normal,
which may not have been a lie,
She was definitely falling.

He left her with a semblance of a rug burn
on Her upper thighs
from the hoods of cars parked
in places less private than they should be.

He left Her with an acquaintance.
a White Mistress that She still craved the company of
one that made Her heavy
one that made Her float
one that exploited the mush between Her ears
and made colors sing so loud
it zapped Her eyes and left Her skin
buzzing with technicolor tranquilities
and monochrome mania.

He left Her with sweet nothings
that She still whispers to Herself
on her bathroom floor,
which was crisscrossed with striking patchworks,
black and white tile creating illusions of movement,
opposites swimming beneath Her already paddling vision
cookie cutter designs interrupted by crimson overflow
while She tried to stay afloat.
Her Father’s Razors.
Her Mother’s Tears.
Her Own Shaky Voice saying Nothings.
to make Her feel like she was everything

He left Her bitten lips and bile in Her throat,
Vomit burning the back of Her mouth
Threatening to spill up and fill Her whole head with heat
so hot it could finally cook Her,
Or warm that place deep in Her belly.

it felt like sick and death
it felt like chaotic carnage
it felt like being gutted
He left Her as She was
a girl-meant-for-gutting.