I say, "I love you,"
you say, "te amo."

I wrote a poem
but it seemed hollow.*

I'm starting to see that we are not
so imperfect, but rather, only
different.

I'm still waiting to age, still learning
to gauge with the dynamics we create - you
speaking a language so foreign, it seems
that you speak sweet
to me
but I fail to believe
you say what you mean.

It's as though the weight of the phrase
"I love you"
hangs heavy with the ones
who came before you;

it reminds me of airport goodbyes, of late-night
confessions on Facebook - sleepy and
painfully honest,

it reminds me of another story,

"I love you" has significance, a ponderance, an expectation,
a manner in which I can predict
the things you think behind those unsmilingly
eyes, but "te amo"

"te amo" is Rihanna, it's an utterance on a evening
beach, it's a reflexive simple present
tense, conjugated with practice, and now
it's my haven,
my integration, you have become
engrained in my conversations.

i am split between barely-different
desires, or rather,
equally-addictive inclinations:

you see, half of me wants nothing
but to strip away the sticky sweet
self-hatred, just say **** it
and be happy/
relive the day-after-day
same sensations, but this time
enjoy them freely, without the hesitation
usually harbored within,
fed again and again;

the other half of me wants to live
sort of slovenly: one day, purchasing
scarves and layered plaid garments,
hiding behind charcoal eye liner
and perhaps a full sleeve
of amateur ink (tree leaves changing
into full-piece stories);

half of me hates me, and the other
wants so badly to grasp hold
before I tumble full force
into the cracks out of reach from the future
created for me, by me, waiting
patiently.

Self-respect is not me dismissing
my own emotions, it is not
excusing unprotected *** and disrespectful
texts because the ****** is better
than the silence;

no--- self-respect is not me crawling
down the street to fake-sleep
beside your smug form, only so that I may
cab home the next day and nap
away the pain;

self-respect is not what I have given myself
these past eight months, but I promise to fight
now because if you believe this poorly
labeled, loosely constructed
relationship allows you to **** her
with your clothes on in the corner
of the dance floor
while I am five feet from your
disgraceful ******* self, then I can find
the strength to delete every pleasant
memory from the place in my brain
that's been holding me back;

there are so many inches of my body and
my soul that you will never know (not that you
even thought to pry) and I will keep them safe
for the next deserving guy

every ***** must be floating in my self-
loathing, my brain detached and sparking
in the fluid, crying out to me, logically

get off the balcony, Romeo isn't who
he appears to be

and my lungs are flooding quickly, but
my heart beats without the need to
breathe,

every piece of me is independent,
and yet they all ache from the same **** pain,

and I hate the credit I'm giving you
just by waking up, trying impossibly
to forget you - I hate you, I swear to God,
I hate you for making me weak, for making me
believe this ache was caused by you and not me

[my memories are not
loose threads
that catch passing through
the doorways]

you are not
something I despise, and yet
I no longer sacrifice
parts
of my well-being
for your
shallow communication/
your subconscious lies;

if you cannot define yourself,
then do not wait for me
to redefine my life-
waiting-

there is something remarkable
about you, and it took me
too long
to realize that what I saw
in you
was an image
from within
my own mind;

you were only ever
human,
a creation of my own
exaggeration

moral tamponade: resisting the existing
pressure against my breath; the right in wanting,
the wrong in settling - the confliction in my conviction
for both *** and respect;

must the two be mutually
exclusive?

I don't do that catch and release type of
relationship **** - no predator/prey - just equally
matched competitive exhibition: rotate the roles
of top and bottom, pleasure and pleasing, we are in need
of fire breathing;

I want purity in purpose, practice
in form/I want limbs to be tangled and words
to be torn

hold my hand/ above my head
kiss me sweet/ against the bed
call me pretty/ into my breast
cleanse my sins/ I am wet