baptism, histrionic (case study), & snapshots

baptism

you taught me baltimore skyline. weaved my gold
hair between your black strands, kept your dirty-
milked palms around my waist. i whispered a hymn into
your open mouth, swallowed you along
the alcohol. we counted the seconds between
lightning with our tongues. i scratched
a cross into your back with nails
made to slit throats— drank your holy
water as if it came from god
himself.

histrionic (case study)

there’s a knife under my pillow, and he knows.
     there’s a stranger in my bed, and i think i love him.
 
my boyfriend hit me, but i think it’s ‘cause he loves 
     me. i forgot how i ended in these sheets, but i know
 
i love him. you’re scaring me. i shouldn’t hurt when
     he’s here, but i do. i told him i’d behave. told him
 
i wouldn’t drink anymore. i met a boy, told me
     we could fuck again if i didn’t black out, said i made him
 
bleed, said i threw up on his shadowed carpet. next time
     we fucked, i was just as drunk, only smarter.
 
everything’s a game, if you want it to be. a play,
     a hollywood movie. everything’s a movie when you
 
wear fishnets to science class, wink at your professor from the back
     row. god, it’s like i can’t stop. it’s like i’m crazy. he says i am, drunk 
 
slut. says i should be grateful, and i am. says bruises aren’t
     a perfect fit, but they are. he says i’m scaring him, like
 
the time i showed him the blade, buried like treasure, pink-pillowed
     silver. he says, no, he doesn’t like it, give it to me. and i do
 
(there are more, kitchen knives and shaving razors). i fucked his best
     friend after he left a scar, bitch, swallow
 
 the damn metal for all i care. i can’t remember how i ended
     up here. i can’t remember his name.

snapshots

(+)


my lotus thigh remembers. music
trailing from your fingers to my
mouth.                                                 i am made of sugar
water. every inch of me     splits
                                                            around you.
(-)

you’re blurred. the light swallows
the whites of your eyes. good
girl. yes, daddy. it feels like
summer. your sweat drops
like rain. i have never wanted
anything else.

Charlotte Covey is from St. Mary’s County, Maryland. Currently, she is an MFA candidate in Poetry at the University of Missouri – St. Louis. She has poetry published or forthcoming in journals such as The Normal School, Salamander Magazine, Slipstream, The MacGuffin, and Cider Press Review. She is co-editor-in-chief of Milk Journal.