I remember used.

I remember having thumbprints on my thighs // like grease-stains on a cracked screen. I remember being screen // door left unlocked in case he ever wanted to stop by // because he always wanted to come inside. I remember being cracked // dropped on linoleum floor along with a wine bottle & trust. I remember nights I did not ask for // and hands that were not washed before desecrating my bed. I remember disposal from the way it tastes like cigarette kisses with dissociated eyes. I remember dirt // and soot // and soiled birthday parties; // I remember how every combination of I’m sorry I’m an addict sounds. I remember guilt // and sex // and walking home without saying goodbye. I remember walking out on Valentines // and watching the crystal snow glisten under golden streetlamps at 2 AM. // I remember sleeping // angry // hurt // alone // alone // and no lover come to rescue me. I remember sexts sent as SOS // as flares shot into an overwhelming dark // but mistaken for sparks. I remember sparks // & how they char // & how hard it is to clean up ash. I remember ash and how it tasted on your lips // and how firmly your fingers gripped my waist // and how you said nothing to my I love you as the bus rattled us home.

Marisa Adame, Latinx storyteller/creative from Dallas, Texas, seeks to create work that balances as much as it deconstructs. Her chapbook manuscript, butterfly bombs, was a finalist for Thoughtcrime Press’s Lorien Prize in 2017. You can find her on YouTube or Instagram (@marisasaysthings), at marisaadame.com, and on her official Facebook page.