This morning I cried
In front of sixty people
Still, I felt alone

I just want to
Believe the things
I wrote about myself
On yellow Post-It notes
Stuck to my mirror

you said
you were surprised,
the first time we met,
that i didn't find you alarming,
and flee.
sweet boy.
after you shake
the devil's hand,
hug him even,
everything else
seems manageable.
maybe it's masochism,
or maybe just trauma,
but sometimes
i even miss
that old dog Lucifer.
you said you do, too.
we're all broken,
aching pieces on
the inside.
it seems as though
people miss being hurt.
when you told me
to close my eyes,
i wasn't sure
whether you'd kiss me or
stab me in the chest, and
although i was glad
to feel your lips,
i wouldn't have minded
if it was your knife,
either.