it feels like i lose blood each time
like the pastor's daughter once told me
(a wide-eyed ******)
that each man we give our hearts to
keeps a piece in their pocket
and that if we give too much
we'll have nothing left.
and maybe that was just christian *******
trying to make me fear the loss of my virginity
more than death
so that when i was *****
when i was 20
i was silent
and ashamed
and the blood i lost
came from between my legs,
not my chest.

but my heart is different after this last one,
so maybe she was right after all
and after him
every time someone kinder
is intimate with me
i feel like my hands are covered in gore
and when he takes them
they slip
muddy his shirt
his hands.
and that's something i'd never want
to inflict -  

i grew up being told
my sins
were covered
in blood
as i grow older
i am convinced
it's true.

the back of his neck reminds me of you
coffee shops with tables
by big windows
project your face onto my irises
elbows on your knees, smiling at me
closed lips
and i no longer wonder how much was false
but which parts:
i've come to realize that it's not a question of quantity,
it's just when
how
where
in that cafe?
on your living room floor?
in the dark theater
your hand on my thigh
staring at me
like you couldn't see
the 50 foot screen
just the furrow between my brows,
the kisses that lay in drifts
on my bottom lip

and that stark contrast
in our last theater together
your eyes forward, determined
looking anywhere
but at my face

strange little reminders
much less frequent
much less romanticized
your words sound
like the sappy tumblr post
i once accused them of being
i see the backs of them
and they truly are
empty
like i was so afraid
they were

he says
we are like those pieces of grass
that come up through cracks in the sidewalk:
just glad to have the sun shining on us.

we come from the same place
he says.

he told me tonight that he wrote about me
that it's time-stamped
that he didn't just write
because i told him i did
and i tremble
a little
a different sort of fear
(is it?)

and maybe it only feels like we're up so high
together
from the clouds of marijuana
in your shower
and maybe we know so much about the moon
because we are the moon
and you ask me
what's on my mind
like you'd like nothing more
than to understand
the chemicals in my brain
see if you could taste
the similarity -

adjacent things
are so beautiful
when you are the one
describing them

brown skin
curly-haired
smile
i sit in a dark car
making a list in my mind
of things i will no longer endure:

manipulation.
intense jealously.
passive aggression.
obsession.
lying.
crocodile tears.
simpering compliments.
cheating (although
i have told myself these things
brazenly
many times
alone
and out loud).

i will only give time to:
kindness.
generosity.
understanding.
empathy.
self care.
motivation.
love for others.
humility.
honesty.
and somehow
lately
(suddenly)
those brown eyes
and that white smile.


i've been celibate since august.
or at least since the first couple weeks
when he begged me to **** him
saying it wouldn't hurt

and since then
i have never felt more barren.
but like abraham
and sarah
i suddenly teem with life

Roman,
(could he make me fall in a day?)
i want to sit in your lap
arms around your neck
watch movies
hit blunts
in bathrooms
(though i know better)
and this website
keeps deleting
the simple love poems
i write about you
almost as if
to warn me
or maybe just
a cosmic accident

but here i am
rewriting for the third time.
because there is something that you understand about me
that even Gabriel The Angel
did not
and perhaps
that is worth writing about

under the moon,
above the moon,
adjacent to it.

i focus so much on the fact that i almost died in this house
no matter how i strain against those memories
no matter how i shake
convulsively
completely out of control
the trauma
making my muscles
tremble
and i scream in my little,
beautiful,
warm,
snow encrusted cottage
by the stream
that i am so thankful for
trying to put a positive spin
on the fact that i lost the battle between a fresh start
and deadly memories
in this innocent house
that is undeserving
of the anguish
i brought with me
in boxes
that i never fully unpacked

and though my mind is diseased with the thought
when i am alone in the afternoons
that i almost died here
in this little shoebox room,
that some of the most horrific memories of my life
are here

i also
stayed
alive
here.
in this little cottage
by the stream
that i am so thankful for.

and every place i almost left
eternally
i somehow found the resolve to stay in.
and though through each house
may still slink reminders
that make me shake,
i must focus
and remember
my determination
to spread kindness
like this little house
with the warm floors
the quiet windows,
the gentle stream.

angel's mouths
drip blood
as they look up from my wrists
pale-faced
halos
their kindness
frightens me
the most

i've been chasing laughter in **** rips
and pipe hits
for a week now
addicted to that loose,
wild, inexplicable euphoria
a level of artificial joy
that i can't seem to reach any longer
on my own
and i'm fine with it fake
like i'm fine with fake christmas trees now
(though my 8 year old self
would quake
at the thought)
i understand that it's cheaper
easier
less mess,
less maintenance
and though i'll always miss the authenticity
the smell, the feel
i see the charm
in the illusion
now