Is there nothing
to this cerebral portrait?
(I have already tried
loving— and
going for it). Yet,
I cannot deny that
a memory differs
from a moment.

you probably think you drained me that afternoon
stole the last bit of hope I had that love is more than bare bodies pressed against each other in the dark
but I still have the same fire in me I’ve had since I was six years old
hearing my father slur his words at 2 am while I pretended to sleep, trembling hands and sweaty palms until we make it home
and I swore I’d never choose a bottle and a hollow heart over someone I was meant to love
but if I didn’t need a man then to show me I was worth more than empty promises and inconsistent affection
what makes you think I’d need one now?

a year out, guileless
I now resume, wait, resume?
fear not, I'll add it