google search:
"what counts as physical assault?"

                                ~ as if my experience is less than valid to count.

i accidentally typed "ana" instead of my full, real name
into the blank document.

and for a brief moment, i felt like a different person,
like i assumed the persona, the qualities, the life of whoever "Ana" would be.

and in that brief moment,
i felt real, counterfeit, foreign, familiar, and birthed anew. . .

he's a soft place to land,
where the black doesn't turn white
but gray at the very least.

he is the comma in a sentence,
the moment amidst the story
and every time after.

he uses our friendship
to end debates,
his bathroom soap smells sweet like sticky dates.

the world moves south but we go north,
against the current
and we're heading straight for the storm.

a gut-wrench. stomach tumbling like an olympic gymnast. butterflies (not the good kind). feeling the wind being squeezed out of my lungs by hurt like a go-gurt tube in a toddler's merciless grip. the sweet taste of cinnamon coffee cake turns sour in my mouth like month-old freshly churned butter. speechless (not the good kind). my eyes become kaleidoscopes. i knead the ball of socks in my hands that i was in the middle of putting away. "hello?" he said on the other end of the line. but i cannot move. i cannot speak. i cannot breathe. i can only feel. feel the panic. the way it moves...creeps and seeps into every crack and crevice of my bones, blood-filled veins from limb to limb. the panic that i may not be enough. i can only think. think too much. think too much. think too much.

and i miss you 'fore we ever say goodbye
goodbye
and we never had a clue
goodbye
i was never enough for you
goodbye
was there ever something i could do?
goodbye
further apart, apart we grew
goodbye
and i would cry myself askew
goodbye
but now i see myself anew
goodbye
goodbye
goodbye. . .

to feel unloved so he can tell me how much i am loved.
pancakes stacked to my nose, dripping with maple syrup and sprinkled with junk.
a retirement party before i have even graduated.
a wall of blue china plates, the ones with the pictures of snowy
                                                                ­  barns, cows, and bridges.
a whiff of him--plastic ziplock bags, overripe banana, and cologne.
a short-lived sin, intentions so pure it doesn't count.
yellowing pages and broken spines floor-to-ceiling.
a love for my mother, one without fear, fire, or fury.
a sun so generous, that i forget what november ever felt like.