Circa 2005
& for some reason,
(unbeknownst to me)
they trusted a student
with the keys
to the high school auditorium.

Two, thick,
metal keys
engraved with three
words that would tempt
the whole of my disguised devilry:

1. DO
2. NOT
3. COPY

Eve to fruit
Pandora to box
Me—
to a couple of squeaky doors.

I’d hush you as we
teetered the catwalk.
We’d speak
in whispered contraband.
Forbidden acts
in the high up off-limits.

“The taxpayers don’t have to know.”

There was something
so fine
about making self-discoveries
in the untouched spaces
above the lights.

Listen,
I've got guilt choking all of my good juju.

I’m sorry I told you we’d hang out
just so I could come over
to watch Breaking Bad.
You know I need that
weekly crystalbluepersuasion.

I’m sorry I didn't sit on the porch steps
with you afterward
while you had your evening cigarette.
(I could have done that at least.)

I imagined you
sitting there
watching me
drive down the street &
out of your sight—
a lit cigarette hung limply from your lips.

I felt your disappointment &
I cursed my mother for teaching me
to have such a sharp sense of empathy.

I know I’ll never be badass enough
not to care.
I realize I was born to give
one too many *****.
I've learned to accept it
as my incessant character flaw.

(It could be worse.)

Although,
I have to be honest,
I get my kicks
entertaining the notion
that for one evening
I was
the one that got away.

Five,
small,
fingerprinted bruises
track my inner thigh.

I study them.
Lightly trace each shape
with my tiny fingers.

It wasn't your intention, I’m sure—
to put them there.
& yet
I dig that you left me with something
to remember you by.

Five,
little,
light purple souvenirs
to remind me that intimacy
doesn't always mean to discourage.

I’ll fondly watch them slow-fade
bright violet to a tawny nothing.

& meanwhile

I’ll think of something clever—
some sly suggestion
to get you to remind me
one more time.