My parents hid   the bread  you used to love
when  we’d all sit  down  drink coffee   munch on a few
Maria cookies   how’d you jump from side to side  small paws
at our legs   asking for crumbs   when  they left
I searched for   the bread   and found it  hard and stale
on the top  kitchen   cabinet    I poked a hole into one
bun   and filled it with  cheese    
imagined how you’d   beg me for
a piece

in my head,  you are made of honey and steel and I am
always trying to appeal to your sweetness
and get
past your metal

Funny enough, he had been coming
up Snake Hill, was crossing the street and passed
by the Jewish bagel shop
I knew it was him the moment he  walked by
and his eyes
skimmed me without  feeling
Half of me wanted him to recognize me entirely  
including the awkward conversations and little notes on
the stairs   the poems and songs I’d sent him to woe
his heart    but maybe I just wanted his privilege
his strength    his shadow  to become mine

Vlad was still himself,  iced eyes, and blonde hairs sticking out
of his baseball cap
He was still tall and resembled the likes of a demi-God, a character
fit for myths and fairytales

And I was still me or had I become better or worse?
Still my stubby self, desperate for the affection of something
legendary

Destiny   speaks   like a Queen     even
though    you may not love     her now      I don’t envy
her   for the love you gave her      I envy
her strength    for being  able to survive without it

I was thinking about  my upcoming trip to see you
and for some odd reason, my mind did not drift to
worry-wort antics   or end-of-the-world scenarios
instead  I remembered about that time
I peed on myself because I was so drunk  
and my shirt was heavy with puke

and you took me home
(I can’t imagine your embarrassment on the 6)
and you took all my clothes off and laid me down
on your bed, covered me with the warmest blanket
and held me like there was no tomorrow
and you whispered: “ it’ll be okay.”

And it was okay.
And you even put my clothes in the washer.

When I was younger  I listened
to Avril Lavigne on repeat   especially
during long summer months in Colombia
I thought I was  somehow edgy  
and I thought my love affair  was something
out of a book   something of a story
to be heard  in her music
But    it wasn’t
It was   sweaty   awkward   and false
something  full of little questions  
none of which had important answers
It was feeling   bad  for feeling good
And feeling good   cause it felt bad
It was too much    too soon

My uncle took pictures of me   and so easily
I’d forget I wasn’t  keeping my belly in, and he’d
hover the camera around and as I’d turn away
as to not ruin the scenery  he would  remind
me gently how  I was the subject of his art