meandering affection

i write about love

and sometimes i'm not sure i know what that is. 

it's just that 
i remember death 
and sometimes my eardrums echo
and i cradle memories in
insubstantial settings

but don't you dare say that i'm not valid. 

i'm already trying to figure out who i am, 
i don't need you telling me no - 
it's a slippery slope and goddamn i'm an eel

so i guess i'll just pretend 
that your thigh against mine
doesn't make me flush
and your cheeks don't stain a matching pink 

because we were never allowed to be anything
and i can't go to the GSA with [edit: callname taken out]
and my skin is too tight

ain't that the truth

so i'll sit here, 
fuming with my sheets around my waist, 
and try to stretch out some of my pulled muscles 

because maybe i don't know what love is. 

maybe i'm just stumbling my way through
like i don't know what light switches are
but it's a little hard when the chandelier is guarded by CIA

and my stomach clenches,
trying to remind me i haven't eaten anything solid today
but how can i eat and worry

so i choke down an apple, 
lips too winter-dry for fruit

i guess i'll try to 
wash the thick, poignant disapproval from my hair
and scrub my skin red-raw.

The End

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