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
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.