i.
at first,
he is so sweet.
he swallows all of you whole
like the blueberries you bought at the side of the road
on the way to the campsite upstate that was
***** and loud and perfect.
he tells you that you are
***** and loud and perfect.
he wants to stake a tent between your legs,
to start a fire on your chest,
to hike up your canyons,
to admire the view.
ii.
he says you look better when you eat less
so you survive on sipping ink from your pen
and eating prose off of pages like
a buffet that is all-you-can-eat
as long as you keep writing it.
that winter,
you learn to subsist on newports and the words stuck in your throat.

he says, “i don’t like poems that rhyme.”
so you ****** dissonance in your sleep.
you cut the vowels from your words until they’re as jagged and harsh as his body feels.
that winter,
everything you write comes out sharp and obvious like your ribcage was.

he says your biggest problem is that you’re easy to leave.
your eyes are red like exit signs.
your spine curves like a see you later.
you frown your hellos and smile your goodbyes.
you can’t find it in you to tell him
he cannot leave where he never stayed.
iii.
at thanksgiving,
you take the train to laguardia
to meet your parents at the airport.
waiting at the baggage claim,
you watch your mother
look right through you
as she dials you on the phone.
“we don’t see you,”
she says, three steps away.
“we can’t find you.”
she is so close, you could touch her.
instead, you watch the bags go round and round on their carousel--
wishing you could ride with them.
wishing someone would claim you.