At the end of every night,
I take the trash out of my mind:
cockroaches evading light
in corners to which I’ve been blind.
I hide them like unwanted folds
submerged in detergent froths,
nestled among my clothes,
not knowing that as they dry out
they will grow to be
the monster
in every one of my closets.

Sleeping,
I had
not a dream
but
a vision,
seething
of desires
suppressed;
seeking
your warmth,
your fire,
your light.

For so long
I had
wanted
a slice
of the cake
— your cake —
before I
realized
that I
hate
cakes.

I want to be your first
And I want to be your last.

I want to be the first person you text
as you wake up in broad daylight
And I want to be the last you see
as you yawn and call it a night.
I want to be the first to hear that joke
you thought up in a Biology class
And I want to be the last you’d want
to respond with a few vacuous laughs.

I want to be the first you tell of
a scalding sensation on the way home
And I want to be the last ingredient
to your creation — your critic over the phone.
I want to be the first you ask
what jacket and shoe colors suit you more
And I want to be the last to
be blamed if your heart feels a sore.

I want to be the first to see you draw up
a plan for a dream you’ve had for years
And I want to be the last beside you
if it fails and you’re drenched in tears.
I want to be the first thing that comes
to you when you hear the word “happiness”
And I want to be the last to know that
all along, what I’ve been rejecting is your best.

I want to be your first
And I want to be your last
But I can never be your first,
A question still if I will be your last.
For now, I am happy that I am
Neither your first nor your last
Rather, that I just am.