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Steven Muir Jul 2015
I.
No one besides
myself
has seen my own chest in
maybe three years.

II.
Even all that time we were lovers
she
never did.
Always acted disgusted at the very idea.

III.
You undid buttons and
carefully pressed warm fingers into places that haven't let
another human touch them
in an entire lifetime.

IV.
Checking for bruises is --
it's odd. The things you did could little be
construed as platonic, or
honestly necessary,
but the affection of checking my bruising and
affirming the lack of broken ribs,
is incredibly
platonic.

V.
You never once looked
disgusted.
That's a ******* first.
Steven Muir Jul 2015
I.
A boy once loved you the same way
he loves sunsets, photographs, modern art, ice coffee.

II.
He's scared of you now,
the way he is of abandonment, needles, attackers, slurs in alleyways.
Steven Muir Jul 2015
I.
I've spent time making peace with things
that honestly are so cringeworthy,
no one should find a justification.
Steven Muir Jun 2015
I.
History repeats itself in
the worst ways;
a broken bone finally heals and
is snapped again
with softer hands.

II.
Falling for someone is
different every time you do it,
and watching others fall apart is harder
the fifth time 'round.

III.
Sit still and the world will turn around you.
Stand up and run,
and you'll fuel its momentum.
Steven Muir Jun 2015
To be sure, it's unconventional;
Seems as though loving someone ought to have boundaries --
"Kissing means romance"
"Saying 'I love you' means commitment"
"Sleeping together means - "
But what does that ******* mean?
Nothing more, just sleeping.
So safe it felt like I could breathe.

To tell someone, "I slept the night,
better then I ever have,
my head on his chest and wrapped in the warmest arms."
They'll assure me it's a love affair.
How can I defend against -- that --
When I'm not even sure, really, if they're right.

I've been in love (or so I thought) before.
It felt different but who's to say that wasn't the abuse.
Thought loving someone, romantically and proper, meant hurting.
Yearning, confusing, burning, the occasional glorious moment
When they let you come close enough to touch
Fingertips.
Thought it was about putting up with pain because
they were worth it.

But the way I feel now isn't like
Hurting myself to make them happy or okay --
In fact, it's just the opposite.
I'm a better person, safer in my own skin, happier;
I want to live with you and sleep with you and hold your hands
But I never want to kiss you more than a peck upon the forehead.
Steven Muir Jun 2015
I.
The telltale signs of lust are writ
upon your features,
it's easier to ignore then to fear.

II.
I don't with a single hand to touch me,
at least not where you think it counts,
at least not here.
Steven Muir Jun 2015
We are streetlights;
One pool of light barely out of reach
Of the next.
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